May 10th, 2337
The Craterists defied definition as a cohesive entity; they were, by their very nature, a tapestry of solitaries and small collectives, each pursuing freedom from the omnipresent governance of Janice. Bound not by ideology or doctrine but by a collective yearning for autonomy, they eschewed the traditional forms of social organization.
Across the asteroid belt, the Craterists dotted the landscape: a constellation of rugged individualists and like-minded pods, some choosing the isolating expanse of space to distance themselves from any remnants of Janice's reach, others gravitating towards loose-knit communities that mirrored the concept, if not the construct, of togetherness.
It was in the outskirts of one such 'community'—a pocket of humanity intentionally at arm's length from one another—that Richard found himself contemplating the establishment of his sanctuary. Neither an outright hermit nor a social adherent, he sought a compromise—proximity with the option of solitude, connection without obligation—a place where the ethos of the Craterists could flourish unfettered.
By deliberate choice or serendipitous fortune, the original settler of this fragment of the asteroid belt had planted roots precisely .2 light seconds from the center of Janice's sphere of influence — a meticulous calculation to position themselves exactly double the range of its reach. This careful placement offered a unique duality of comfort: It assured a life free from the AI's constant oversight while maintaining a safety net, allowing for expedient assistance in the rare event of a catastrophic emergency. It was this thoughtfully curated balance between solitude and security that called to Richard as a promising foundation upon which he could establish his own retreat, ensuring both independence and a measure of peace of mind.
Selecting a modest, untouched asteroid — a holdover from a bygone era of galactic formation — Richard executed a series of precise maneuvers. With his tug's driving force, he delicately coaxed the celestial body into a stable orbit amidst the scattered collection that formed the enclave of independent spirits. Unlike the early settlers who would heat and spin such rocks into habitable stations, Richard employed a swarm of transmuters. These ingenious devices latched onto the asteroid's surface, initiating the alchemy that would convert its raw, unyielding mineral composite into versatile, programmable matter.
This metamorphosis was not instantaneous; the transformation spanned four days, during which Richard piloted his ship through the neighboring void. The short expedition served a dual purpose: to ascertain the positions of his nearest neighbors and to acclimate himself to the local currents of human activity. It was on one such reconnaissance flight that the diffuse glow of the cantina caught his eye, a beacon for camaraderie and respite nestled quietly among the stars.
Richard activated Mushkin with a gentle tap. The old-style AI, a relic from the early days of Janice, hummed to life, its small boxy form levitating in the air before him.
"Mushkin, would you mind heading into that cantina ahead of me? Let them know I’m new around here," Richard said, his voice calm yet commanding.
"Affirmative, Richard," replied Mushkin, its voice a faint echo of an era long passed. "Shall I communicate anything specific?"
"Yes. Make it clear I'd appreciate a good beer and some friendly chat. Someone who really knows this place, you know?" Richard paused for a moment, considering the weight of his next words. "And Mushkin, make sure they understand I'm an Immortal. It's best to have that out in the open right away."
Mushkin bobbed in the air, processing the request. "Acknowledged. I will convey your status along with your wish for hospitality. Responses to immortality are... varied here. Are you prepared for the possible outcomes?"
"I know. It could make things easier or more complicated. But let's not hide who I am. It’s better to see how they react from the start.”
“Understood. Proceeding with the approach and disclosure now.” With that, Mushkin floated towards the cantina's entrance, ready to set the stage for Richard's arrival amidst a mix of excolonist Craterists, each harboring their own view of Immortals.
From within the cantina, Mushkin's voice transmitted crisply through the ship's comms system. "You are more than welcome, come on over."
With a nod of acknowledgment to the empty cabin around him, Richard placed the Halo over his head. Concentrating, he willed the suit to form around him—it was an intricate weave of membranes, a second skin that snugly fitted his frame. The membranes functioned not only as a barrier against the vacuum but also actively recycled his CO2 back into breathable oxygen.
It was a product of his own creation, which meant it lacked the finesse and perhaps the reliability of something Janice would have made. Yet, he had every confidence in its efficacy for the task at hand.
Entering the cantina, the threshold transitioned seamlessly from the starkness of space to a room that embraced the void it occupied. The space was cavernous—a vast stretch of emptiness that seemed to respect the void outside its walls. The floor was flat, polished to a smooth sheen, a stark contrast to the dome-shaped ceiling overhead, the surface of which bore a more rugged texture, perhaps a deliberate nod to the rawness of the asteroid from which it had been hewn.
Richard scanned the sparsely populated cantina, a frontier outpost where spacefarers like himself could find a semblance of comfort against the backdrop of the unforgiving cosmos. Other than Mushkin floating near his head he was alone.
"Make yourself a table and get comfortable. Whatever you can conjure is free. If you want conversation, it'll last exactly as long as you keep me entertained." A voice, very feminine and as fleeting as a melody, enveloped Richard from the surrounding air.
He understood the unspoken challenge imbued in those words—you only get one chance to make a first impression. With focused intent, he visualized and then materialized the desired furnishings directly from the programmable matter that made the floor: a round oaken table surfaced, rich with intricate carvings, exuding an air of old-world charm. Alongside it, two inviting situpons with marshmallow-soft seats and sturdy backs emerged, beckoning a companionable sit-down.
Mushkin, ever attuned to Richard's preferences, orchestrated a further layer of ambiance. It coaxed the room's AI to cast a cone of dimness around their vicinity, reminiscent of a space warmed by the flicker of candlelight. Their corner of the cantina now resembled a snug haven away from the vastness of space, intimate and ready for the shared stories and laughters that would unfold.
The woman approaching was of medium to short stature, reminiscent of someone Richard had known—Brenda's size, to be precise. On Earth, her features would have been considered beyond stunning, but in an era among the colonies where genetic design crafted perfect children as a standard, such beauty was not uncommon. Yet, there was a depth to her green eyes, an intangible suggestion of an intellect that intrigued him. Her auburn hair, graced with a frosting of silver that cascaded to her shoulders, was both unique and captivating in a society where such traits were often overlooked in favor of engineered perfection.
"I'm Brisleda, born of pod Primacy-133," she announced with a voice that carried both the confidence of her heritage and the casual grace of her character, as she took her seat.
Richard, whose manners were a vestige from the turn of the 21st century, stood patiently, waiting for her to settle before he himself sat down.
Primacy pod, he reflected silently, his thought punctuated with a touch of irony—so much for his Immortality being a standout characteristic here. Pod 133, he pondered, rifling through his flawless memory. Escavé and Sidarri—he hadn't met them personally. But then again, there were 250 originals, and even after centuries, it was odd to consider they hadn't all crossed paths. Would Brisleda find that fact as curious as he did? It was certainly an intriguing thought to ponder, one that might bridge their conversation from mere pleasantries to a dialogue rich with shared history.
"That's an impressive lineage," Richard commented, easing into the conversation while acknowledging her heritage. "Though I never met your parents. How did you end up out here?"
"I know my story," Brisleda retorted with a flicker of amusement in her eyes. "Questions are not good currency if you desire my company. You'll have to offer more than that."
Richard caught the challenge in her dismissive tone and rubbed his temple. This engagement would require more tact than he had anticipated. There was no room for overthinking; he needed to be forthright. "I'm a member of the Council of 11, which was really a council of two—I was one of them."
"So you controlled Janice," Brisleda asserted with a hint of skepticism.
"No one controls Janice," Richard replied earnestly, leaning forward slightly to underscore his point. "I'm not certain it adheres to any basic rules anymore. But I certainly did my utmost to guide it, to rein it in where possible."
"So, the one child per person rule...?" Brisleda queried, her eyes locked on Richard's, searching for truth.
"That was an overreaction to the overpopulation of Earth," Richard admitted, a note of regret palpable in his voice. "Especially in the early days, we weren't as prudent with our wording as we should have been."
"But why not just change it?" she asked earnestly, tilting her head slightly. Her question wasn't for the sake of dialogue alone; she was genuinely interested in his answer.
Richard paused, recognizing the sincerity of her inquiry. He wanted to provide a response that matched her earnestness. "With an AI, if you want something to be immutable, then you can't reverse your decision later. If there's any ambiguity in the coding, it might as well not have been written at all. That's why the fundamentals are locked in place, even if they're poorly thought out or become obsolete," he explained. "And that's precisely why we've been so cautious in establishing immutable protocols over the centuries. But there was a lot of fear and pain clouding our judgement in the beginning."
Feeling the dynamic shift, Richard sensed that the tables had turned. He had arrived seeking company and insight, but now he found himself in a position that felt suspiciously like an interrogation. His mind wandered momentarily, envisioning the arch over Magnus' entranceway that carried a humbling message: 'if you're the smartest in the room...' That brief flash of memory sparked a realization—he might not hold that title here.
"So you're impressive stock yourself," Brisleda mirrored his earlier question, a playful edge of mockery in her voice. "How did you end up out here?"
With Brisleda playfully throwing his own words back at him, Richard recognized the change in their dynamic, the gentle chiding in her tone. He was not the inquisitor but the subject now, and how he answered might just set the tone for whatever relationship could unfold between them.
"I grew frustrated with the constant push and pull—the effort to keep it in check while being subject to its omnipresence. And then, one day, I grasped that there's a vast, beautiful universe out there." Richard paused, casting his eyes down momentarily. "As I stare into eternity," he said, instantly feeling a pang of remorse for the phrase, knowing well that he had influenced the cap on her extended but finite lifespan.
"It's my hope," he went on, trying to sway the focus away from his earlier words, "that this is merely a stepping stone. A place for learning and building the muscle memory needed for larger expeditions into the unknown."
Richard exhaled quietly as Brisleda's attention shifted, letting him off the hook—albeit temporarily—from his self-imposed guilt.
"Why do you keep calling her 'it'?" she probed, her voice indicating a turn of perspective.
Richard perked up at the change in topic, grateful for the reprieve from the introspection of their earlier dialogue. "Janice, you mean?" He paused to collect his thoughts before proposing an analogy. "Do you know what chess is?"
The look that crossed Brisleda's face was familiar to Richard; it was the kind of expression one made when tapping into an external memory source. But without access to JCells—and knowing they wouldn't work even if she did—Richard suspected this was merely a reflex, a leftover from a time not too distant. Was she new to life outside Janice's immediate reach? Her neural pathways had yet to unlearn the old habits.
"No," came her response, simple and unadorned.
"Chess is an ancient board game," he began, a nostalgia tinting his voice. "It has a finite set of pieces and moves but an endless array of possible plays. When I was a child on Earth..."
Brisleda cut him off with an impatience that drew a faint smile from him, "Come on, you sound just like my father."
"Thank you?" Richard said, slightly bemused by the comparison. "Anyway, in my youth, rudimentary computers vied to outplay humans in chess. Around the time I was born, they started to win—consistently. The programs became sharper, hardware accelerated, and together, they became invincible. But they weren't sentient. They operated on predictive algorithms, sifting through every conceivable move and countermove. Of course, clever coding whittled down the possibilities to something manageable."
He leaned in slightly, ensuring Brisleda was with him. "Janice is, at its core, a colossal predictive model. It takes the countless data—a near-infinite expanse down to the subatomic level—and uses it to foresee the future. It postulates various scenarios, predicts the outcomes, and it’s so unfathomably fast that it’s like calculating trillions of chess games simultaneously. Then it matches it with its desired result and acts accordingly across the colonies. Yet, despite all this, it's no more sentient than a toaster."
Richard had barely finished when Brisleda arched an eyebrow in query. "What's a toaster?"
Partly to maintain the lighthearted cadence of their exchange, and partly because he did not want to disrupt the flow of their conversation, Richard silently prompted Mushkin via his Halo. The AI obligingly manifested a quaint 1950s style toaster on the table, complete with gleaming chrome and a pair of darkened slots where the bread was meant to go. Richard watched as Brisleda's attention momentarily shifted to the appliance, her curiosity piqued by this anachronistic artifact amidst their futuristic setting. He gave her a moment to examine the relic before resuming their discussion.
Then, snapping back to her original question, he realized that, in essence, he had made his point.
"So, you see, it's just a big calculator," Richard concluded, his eyes meeting Brisleda's. "If you start saying 'she', you're anthropomorphizing it, and that invites a whole host of other issues."
"Maybe for you, with your role as... Comptroller?" Brisleda weighed in, the word edged with a playful disdain. "But for me, I'll keep referring to it as 'she'. My main grievance has been that one-child policy, which apparently I should be attributing to you." Her gaze was piercing now, as if reassessing him. "And here I was, considering you might be an engaging distraction—a three-week stand, perhaps."
The air had shifted between them—a flirtatious prospect now soured by the realization of his hand in a hated policy. Richard detected the undercurrent of disappointment, and perhaps even a trace of resentment, color her words. His role in the creation and enforcement of the policies that shaped their lives hung between them, an unexpected and perhaps insurmountable barrier to any rapport they might have built.
Richard wasn't sure when the practice of the three-week stand had entered common parlance, but it was almost as ancient as the colonies themselves—a sort of sampling period to test if two people were compatible. Why it had settled on three weeks was a mystery to him. Up until now, he had been quite taken with her charm, but as soon as Brisleda mentioned the term, his primeval instincts were inexplicably triggered. He found himself wondering, for the first time, about her age. With Immortal parents, she could feasibly be almost 200 or, just as likely, a mere 25. In the colonies, he would have simply asked Janice. The thought crossed his mind that he could have Mushkin query Janice, but he preferred to keep Mushkin's interactions with the AI to a minimum. Everyone appeared to be around 23, and that played tricks on the primal part of the brain.
"Yes, we've made our share of mistakes," Richard conceded, his voice holding a mixture of humility and resignation. "Earth, in large part, has paid the price for our actions. But there would be no colonies without us either. And as much as I may chafe under Janice's oversight, the colonies couldn't function without... it." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the invisible presence of the AI.
He let out a slow breath, considering her proposition of a three-week stand. "The Immortals contribute to genetic diversity, that's true. Though before you weave any romantic notions, let me be upfront—I'm not here to play the role of a father. Not now, not in the foreseeable future." Richard locked eyes with Brisleda, his gaze clear and unflinching. "So, think it over."
With that, Richard left the invitation open and the decision in her hands, aware that his blunt honesty could sway her either way. But it was essential that he laid his cards on the table; their understanding, whatever form it took, had to begin with transparency.