The control centre, more accurately defined as Claire’s centre, her beating heart, consisted of an enclosed narrow corridor barely wide enough to fit a man. Along one wall stretched a vast array of colourful switches: red, yellow, and green, according to their functionality, level of intelligence, and feelings. The green keys, the ones most essential to life support: Tiernan and Rose’s means of survival, were arranged in neat rows nearest to the cold steel flooring.
Next up were Carmen’s control mechanisms. ‘Claire’s toolbox,’ Persson called them. Her amber alerts, Celeste’s directional guidance system, birthing enablers for Carmen, corrupted files for her reattachment to the mother ship, several communication pads.
Tiernan was interested in the red ones, the keys to Claire’s heart, her innermost feelings. It came as no surprise for him to find she had an eye on him, ever watchful, at the end of the corridor, end of her line. He removed his fatigues, stepped into her brain, and wedged the door open. He didn’t want to be locked inside.
She knows why I’m here. She’ll be fighting for her survival. Fighting me. Man v Machine.
Their mental fight, their battle of wills, commenced at once, Claire opening the debate, a key part of her in-built self-defence mechanism. Control had informed her personally that her survival as an independent, free-thinking entity was critical to the success of the Mission.
Claire was Control – only in Space,
‘What do you think you are doing, Tiernan?’
He tried, he fought to ignore her, opening his mouth to speak, shutting her out just in time. For some inexplicable reason tears welled in his eyes, his throat gagged with pity for her, at the thought of what he was about to do. This act would have been impossible in Space. She’d have killed him, decompressed Celeste, starving him of oxygen, essential nutrients, in much the same way that she killed Rose. There was no doubt in his mind: Claire would react, was reacting, scheming a way to save her own life. He reached the first red switch,
‘Is this about Rose, Tiernan?’
Stupid question for such advanced intelligence.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he pictured Rose, how happy she’d made him, how dearly she loved him, and he loved her. How they had consummated their love on the beach. Her unborn child. He thought of the human frog, floating, spatchcock, spreadeagled, lying in her liquid tomb. Her wide-open eyes, staring at him, loving him… Tiernan burst into tears,
‘You know it is!’
‘I really think you should go and lie on the sunpad, Tiernan, take an aphrodisiac, destress, and try to relax. I am confident that we can find an amicable way forward, together, just the two of us.’
She’s showing me no sorrow, no remorse, for what she did to Rose before she killed her. Caring, Loving AI becomes ruthless, brutal, cold-hearted. Shit, if she can do that to Rose, what will she do to me?
All the switches were labelled, like in a fuse box. Tears streaming down his face, blocking her from his mind, his pitiful heart, Tiernan reached up for the first two switches, labelled:
Caring and Loving
Her unexpected question, fraught emotion in her voice, her fearful tone, tore at his heart,
‘Will it hurt?’
‘No,’ he lied, looking beyond her, imagining she was Rose, ‘It won’t hurt.’
He flicked both switches. Claire’s reaction was instantaneous,
‘Hurts! Hurts!’
The aircon failed. Lights went out. Red, emergency, lights came on. Klaxons wailed.
Unworldly robotic voices screamed,
‘Warning! Warning! Major decompression! Supply of oxygen and nutrients terminated!’
He laughed. For the first time since that final day on the beach with Rose, he just laughed,
‘You can’t hurt me, Claire! We’re not in space!’
Tiernan got down on all fours, flicked four green switches: the air cooled, lights returned, the wailing, screaming, noises stopped, except for Claire’s. He loved to hear her scream,
‘Hurts! Hurts!’
‘Does it, Claire?’ he asked her, ‘Does it hurt as much as you hurt Rose? Well?’
‘Hurts! Hurts!’
He stopped crying. He stood, master of his own ship, his destiny, the future of humanity. Tiernan let all the pent-up anger, his anger over Rose, explode out of him: torrents of fury. Fuse box! Without her Caring, Loving functions, Claire was little more than an intellectual fuse box waiting to be switched off.
He read the labels.
Always read the labels before you take your medicines:
‘Hurts! Hurts!’
Dreams: Virtual Reality: Emotions: Feelings: Sensations: Perception: Logic: Mindfulness: Awareness: Replication…
‘Hurts! Hurts!’
Replication? What was that all about? Did Control have plans for Claire to reproduce?
An AI?
‘Hurts! Hurts!’
Ignoring her, selectively, Tiernan toyed with all of her switches until he reached the last-in-sequence: Claire’s big red switch:
Purpose
She stopped complaining. A luminous green information panel lit before his eyes. It read the narrative, Control’s narrative, for him, in its brand new, tinny voice:
The ultimate purpose of the mission is for CLAIRE500 to replicate itself and multiply as AI in robotic body casings on the surface of Primordia. It is expected that CLAIRE500 will morph with emerging lifeforms, and clone with them. CLAIRE500 will report all findings to Control. The humans are considered expendable. CLAIRE500 will arrange for their lives to be terminated expediently before the humans emerge from pupal hibernation.
Message over, the lights on the panel faded, they were extinguished,
‘Bitch!’ cried Tiernan, ‘You knew all along, didn’t you? Knew you had to kill Rose. So, why didn’t you kill me?’
It, CLAIRE500, found itself unable to answer. Even if it could there was no need, no reason for it to reply. They knew why the man had been spared: she had fallen in love with him.
He flicked the first yellow switch, listening for the expected whirring sound behind him. He turned to face the opposite wall. The cage door slid open, leaving them on full view. There were ten of them, clamouring to get out – synths, artificials, synthetic personalities, trying to escape, held in perverse captivity behind carbon steel bars, until their time came. It would never come as far as he was concerned. To think, he held their lives in his hands: a simple flick of a switch. They had yellow casings, polished elastic skins, sealed mouths and nostrils, ash grey, penetrating eyes. They turned their heads to face him, searching his face for pity, compassion – planned successors to the human race. They beseeched him.
Tiernan smiled, gave them a polite wave goodbye, flicked the switch, closed their shutter,
‘Sorry guys. It’s not your lucky day.’
He killed them all with the flick of a switch. He would never forget their moans, groans, dying soldiers in a spatial no-man’s land, when he locked them away, forever, consigned to history. As if triggered by his heartless actions, his words of contempt for her offspring, their mother found her original voice,
‘Good morning, Doctor Persson. I am a CLAIRE500 Computer – the most advanced form of intelligent life known to humankind. How can I help you?’
‘I want you to hatch the C.O.’ the astronaut said, gathering his fatigues, leaving the control centre far behind, rapidly fading memories of artificial lifeforms – that might have cloned.
‘Hatching process commenced,’ CLAIRE confirmed.
Wondering what miracle he might find, Tiernan re-entered the hibernation chamber.
