Read Online Going Interstellar by Jack McDevitt, Les Johnson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jack McDevitt, Les Johnson
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sullen.
“The ship can’t enter hibernation mode as long as I’m on my feet. Also true?”
“Also true,” the image admitted.
He spooned up more borscht. It was cooling quickly. Looking up at the screen on the wall, he said, “Then I will remain awake and active. I will not go into cryosleep.”
“But the ship’s systems will shut down,” the avatar said. “As incoming fuel levels decrease, the power available to run the ship’s systems will decrease correspondingly.”
“And I will die.”
“Yes.”
Ignatiev felt that he had maneuvered the AI system into a clever trap, perhaps a checkmate.
“Tell me again, what is the first priority of the mission protocols?”
Immediately the avatar replied, “To protect the lives of the human crew and cargo.”
“Good,” said Ignatiev. “Good. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
The AI system had inhuman perseverance, of course. It hounded Ignatiev wherever he went in the ship. His own quarters, the crew’s lounge—empty and silent now, except for the avatar’s harping—the command center, the passageways, even the toilets. Every screen on the ship displayed the avatar’s coldly logical face.
“Alexander Alexandrovich, you are required to enter cryosleep,” it insisted.
“No, I am not,” he replied as he trudged along the passageway between his quarters and the blister where the main optical telescope was mounted.
“Power levels are decreasing rapidly,” the avatar said for the thousandth time.
Ignatiev did not deign to reply.
I wish there was some way to shut her off, he said to himself. Then, with a pang that struck to his heart, he remembered how he had nodded his agreement to the medical team that had told him Sonya’s condition was hopeless: to keep her alive would accomplish nothing but to continue her suffering.
“Leave me alone!” he shouted.
The avatar fell silent. The screens along the passageway went dark. Power reduction? Ignatiev asked himself. Surely the AI system isn’t following my orders?
It was noticeably chillier inside the telescope’s blister. Ignatiev shivered involuntarily. The bubble of glassteel was a sop to human needs, of course; the telescope itself was mounted outside, on the cermet skin of the ship. The blister housed its control instruments, and a set of swivel chairs for the astronomers to use once they’d been awakened from their long sleep.
Frost was forming on the curving glassteel, Ignatiev saw. Wondering why he’d come here in the first place, he stared out at the heavens. Once the sight of all those stars had filled him with wonder and a desire to understand it all. Now the stars simply seemed like cold, hard points of light, aloof, much too far away for his puny human intellect to comprehend.
The pulsars, he thought. If only I could have found some clue to their mystery, some hint of understanding. But it was not to be.
He stepped back into the passageway, where it was slightly warmer.
The lights were dimmer. No, he realized, every other light panel has been turned off. Conserving electrical power.
The display screens remained dark. The AI system isn’t speaking to me, Ignatiev thought. Good.
But then he wondered, Will the system come back in time? Have I outfoxed myself?
— 10 —
For two days Ignatiev prowled the passageways and compartments of the dying ship. The AI system stayed silent, but he knew it was watching his every move. The display screens might be dark, but the tiny red eyes of the surveillance cameras that covered every square meter of the ship’s interior remained on, watching, waiting.
Well, who’s more stubborn? Ignatiev asked himself. You or that pile of optronic chips?
His strategy had been to place the AI system in a neat little trap. Refuse to enter cryosleep, stay awake and active while the ship’s systems begin to die, and the damned computer program will be forced to act on its first priority: the system could not allow him to die. It will
“The ship can’t enter hibernation mode as long as I’m on my feet. Also true?”
“Also true,” the image admitted.
He spooned up more borscht. It was cooling quickly. Looking up at the screen on the wall, he said, “Then I will remain awake and active. I will not go into cryosleep.”
“But the ship’s systems will shut down,” the avatar said. “As incoming fuel levels decrease, the power available to run the ship’s systems will decrease correspondingly.”
“And I will die.”
“Yes.”
Ignatiev felt that he had maneuvered the AI system into a clever trap, perhaps a checkmate.
“Tell me again, what is the first priority of the mission protocols?”
Immediately the avatar replied, “To protect the lives of the human crew and cargo.”
“Good,” said Ignatiev. “Good. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
The AI system had inhuman perseverance, of course. It hounded Ignatiev wherever he went in the ship. His own quarters, the crew’s lounge—empty and silent now, except for the avatar’s harping—the command center, the passageways, even the toilets. Every screen on the ship displayed the avatar’s coldly logical face.
“Alexander Alexandrovich, you are required to enter cryosleep,” it insisted.
“No, I am not,” he replied as he trudged along the passageway between his quarters and the blister where the main optical telescope was mounted.
“Power levels are decreasing rapidly,” the avatar said for the thousandth time.
Ignatiev did not deign to reply.
I wish there was some way to shut her off, he said to himself. Then, with a pang that struck to his heart, he remembered how he had nodded his agreement to the medical team that had told him Sonya’s condition was hopeless: to keep her alive would accomplish nothing but to continue her suffering.
“Leave me alone!” he shouted.
The avatar fell silent. The screens along the passageway went dark. Power reduction? Ignatiev asked himself. Surely the AI system isn’t following my orders?
It was noticeably chillier inside the telescope’s blister. Ignatiev shivered involuntarily. The bubble of glassteel was a sop to human needs, of course; the telescope itself was mounted outside, on the cermet skin of the ship. The blister housed its control instruments, and a set of swivel chairs for the astronomers to use once they’d been awakened from their long sleep.
Frost was forming on the curving glassteel, Ignatiev saw. Wondering why he’d come here in the first place, he stared out at the heavens. Once the sight of all those stars had filled him with wonder and a desire to understand it all. Now the stars simply seemed like cold, hard points of light, aloof, much too far away for his puny human intellect to comprehend.
The pulsars, he thought. If only I could have found some clue to their mystery, some hint of understanding. But it was not to be.
He stepped back into the passageway, where it was slightly warmer.
The lights were dimmer. No, he realized, every other light panel has been turned off. Conserving electrical power.
The display screens remained dark. The AI system isn’t speaking to me, Ignatiev thought. Good.
But then he wondered, Will the system come back in time? Have I outfoxed myself?
— 10 —
For two days Ignatiev prowled the passageways and compartments of the dying ship. The AI system stayed silent, but he knew it was watching his every move. The display screens might be dark, but the tiny red eyes of the surveillance cameras that covered every square meter of the ship’s interior remained on, watching, waiting.
Well, who’s more stubborn? Ignatiev asked himself. You or that pile of optronic chips?
His strategy had been to place the AI system in a neat little trap. Refuse to enter cryosleep, stay awake and active while the ship’s systems begin to die, and the damned computer program will be forced to act on its first priority: the system could not allow him to die. It will
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