AI Chapter 1

Alexa has joined a program designed to enhance humans and taken on the related risks.

This is my first moment as a remodeled human.

The doctor motions for me to sit up. I do with ease, but the motion is odd, detached. I ask the doctor about the feeling. He tells me is that it’s normal, that the AI processing the motions needs time to understand my brain’s specific signals.

I am ushered out of the recovery room, officially out of danger, into a large office. They sit me down in on a padded sofa, which is a surprise after the past weeks of firm lab surfaces. I relish the give of the foam. In time, the psychologist who administered the qualification tests sits as well. She picks the matching loveseat at a seventy five degree angle from my own seat.

I put my hand on the arm of my sofa to lightly press the foam. “Do I have to be declared sane again?”

She shakes her head and flips the cover of the file in her hand. “I’m here to introduce you to the program’s second stage”

“I thought I was going to be deployed.”

Still looking at the file, she says, “You have to be cleared for combat, the second stage is training.” She takes out two pieces of eight-by-eleven copy paper, holds them up in each hand, and smiles. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll do well.”

“I’m supposed to be in information, not combat.” I look at the papers. They are filled with gibberish. “What are those?”

“Take a look and pick one.”

I point to the paper on the right. She places it in front of me, on the small round table between us, and tucks the other back into her file.  She hands me a pen and a blank sheet of copy paper and says, “I want you to write down what you see.”

I look at the page again, then place the blank beside it to write. She takes away the filled sheet. I pause to look at her before she says, “Continue.”

She watches me write, hardly blinking. I am more occupied by her staring than the task in front of me, but I finish quickly. When I turn the paper so she can see, she takes out the original again. We both look between the two.

“I’ll put these through a scanner later to be sure, but I’d say you’ve produced a perfect copy.” She puts the papers away, takes out another blank, and hands it to me. “Now reproduce the page you didn’t pick.”

I speak as I write. “Is this all I can do? I have to say, I was expecting something a little more glamorous after the trouble I went through.”

“This is an important feat, Alexa. We all must crawl before we can walk.”

“Isn’t the point of this for me to fly?”

She laughs. “You aren’t in that division.”

I hand the paper back to her completed. She compares it to its original again and looks at it more closely than she did the first.

“Well, it’s no less than we had hoped.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your recollection is fallible”

“I didn’t do anything different.”

“I know. Let’s continue. I want you to mimic me.”

I can only manage to speak with her cadence. She notes it, then the tests continue on the basics of coordination and into more ‘difficult’ analyses.

She says, “Your scores are adequate so far, Alexa. In the training to come, I want you to see how far you can take this. Remember, it’s better to test yourself now than gamble in the field.”



X



The harshness of the light above me wakes me up. I am disoriented. I feel as if this is not my room, but when I fully wake up, I remember the previous day. A beep sounds to my right. I look over, and a small circle on the wall lights up red in time with the beeps. I walk over to it and depress it.

A computer generated woman appears on the screen beside the light.

She turns her head to me, and says, “Junior recruits, report to the audience chamber.”

“I need directions.”

She nods and a map appears on the screen in her place. A yellow line lights up the path between my current location and the apparent audience chamber.

The woman appears again and says, “Would you like me to guide you as you go?”

“No thank you, I can find it.” I hit the red button again and put on my uniform. It takes me a minute.

The halls are clear, so I wonder what time it is. The window I pass, leading to an outside courtyard, tells me that the day hasn’t broken yet.

The auditorium is filled with people of all ages. I recognize a few faces from the preliminary tests, but it wasn’t a time to make friends and I sit by myself. After I settle down, a man walks in. He shuffles forward as if exhausted and sits in the chair closest to the door.

An administrator, by his attire, addresses the group. “Congratulations, recruits, and welcome to the second stage. From now until your deployment, respond to your new designation, ‘trainee.’ The most uncertain period of the program is behind, and horizons are open to you that you’ve only dreamed of. Make use of this enhanced life and earn it anew every day.” He eyes the silent crowd.

The only person who isn’t sitting straight and forward is the man closest to the door. I watch him from the corner of my eye. He twitches, scratching his skin and looking to the door and back with quick jerks of his head.

The administrator says, “There are tasks that, as a trainee, it is your duty to complete to the best of your ability. Whether a combat or information specialist, your AI is a valuable tool. Untested and unrefined, the technology is wasted. Work on mastering your mind, but also take care in learning the conventional skills of your field. An AI will process for you, but it will not make your decisions. Do not forget that-”

A thump and crash echoes through the auditorium. My chest tightens and I whip my head sideways to the source, the man by the door. He is sprawled inelegantly on the floor, his limbs twisted and twitching. Around the room, trainees stand and murmur while he seizes. I take an unsure step to the man, but two attendants rush to his side as I hesitate. They hold him down and stick him with an injection from one attendant’s supply pouches. Almost immediately, the man’s shaking slows, then stops altogether.

Still standing before the trainees, the administrator says, “The risk of rejection is low now, but it is still there. Be honest with your handlers and follow their instructions. There will be check-ups every week.” The attendants carry out the unconscious man while the trainees settle again. “Now, on deciding to follow the combat or information tracks…”



X



I am assigned to a combat troop. The troop is temporary, designed to give trainees a feel for relying on partners before they are assigned to their real partners. When a trainee is cleared for combat, another from their group is promoted and deployed with them. I apply to be reassigned to information, but I am instead given directions to my new group.

They are eating lunch in a yard of concrete and dirt. The director of psychology leads to me to them: a dead eyed man, an older woman clinging to a curious boy, and two blonds the same age, a boy and a girl.

The man smiles at me first. “Welcome to our team. My name is Striker.”

“Alexa,” I say.

To the director, the blonde girl says, “Wait, no. This isn’t fair. Why are you giving her to us?” She rises from the table to stand protest. “She’s going to junk up our flow.”

“As you know, Ridley,” the director says, “your troop has the least members of-”

“Which will only impress the captains more! I’m counting on that!”

The other blond, the boy, stands too and says, “The evaluation is only a few weeks away. How are we supposed to pass with a newbie on our team?”

“You think you’re ready for combat?” the director says. “You’ve been passed over during past evaluations. What makes this one different?”

Both blonds recoil as if slapped, then puff up again. “We’re at the top of the charts,” says the boy.

“We’ve done everything we were told,” says Ridley, the girl.

“Even Jack said we’re the most in sync we’ve ever been.”

“And you want to mess it all up at the last minute!”

“I’m not asking,” says the director. “Work with her or fail, it’s as simple as that. But keep in mind that you’ll never impress the captains if you don’t know how to adjust. Striker,” he says, switching gears and effectively cutting off any further protests. “Make sure Alexa knows where everything is and guide her until she knows the schedule. If she’s late or found in a restricted zone, I’m holding you partially accountable.”

Striker nods, apparently unbothered by the fact that he was just made a babysitter, and Ridley and the blond boy stomp back to their seats at the table.

“I’d recommend taking her to get food first. Maybe by the time you get back Ridley and Theo will have settled down.” With a pointed look at the blonds, he then turns to me. “See Adam Jackson if you have any questions your troop or the manual can’t answer. He’s the trainee coordinator and teaches hand-to-hand. You’ll find him in the system.”

I say, “Yes sir.” He gives me a satisfied nod in farewell, then strides away, presumably back to the auditorium.

Once he’s left, the younger boy at the table speaks up. “You don’t need to get food, Alexa. I got extra for you.”

Ridley says, with a hint of her previous anger, “You knew she was coming?”

“We had the least teammates,” he replies simply, with a shrug. Then he holds out a saran-wrapped sandwich to me.

I take it with a “Thank you,” and sit beside Striker.

The older blond boy, Theo, says, “So. I guess if we’re stuck with you, we might as well know what you can do.”

I shrug. “Apparently my AI lets me copy and store data.”

“What?” Ridley says. “That’s so lame. How can we work with that in the field?”

Theo shoves her, then says to me, “Why aren’t you in information?”

“I put in a transfer request. Maybe when it goes through you won’t have to adjust to me after all.”

“Aw, that’s not right,” the young boy says. “You don’t even know us yet and you’re trying to leave? I gave you a sandwich.”

“Stop whining, Victor. That’s a good thing,” Ridley says.

“Or would be, if there was any way that transfer was going to be approved,” Theo says.

“What do you mean?”

“He means that the information track is only for people not suited to combat,” Striker says.

Ridley sighs. “If they put you here, you’re staying. That is, unless you prove to be totally incompetent, which is a low bar itself.”

“Set by you,” Theo says, then he turns to me again. “Aren’t you going to ask what we can do?”

I blink. “Well… Okay. What can you do?”

He holds his pointer finger up to say “wait,” and stands from the table. Ridley rolls her eyes and puts her elbow on the table to lean her head in her hand, but she’s smirking. The older woman puts her arm around Victor, the little boy, who’s gone back to eating his lunch. I watch Theo strut to the end of the metal table and put his hands on the connected benches. Then the skin of his arms ripples from some change under the surface, and he lifts.

I grab the tabletop with both hands as Theo brings table and benches and five people a yard off the ground. Striker catches a napkin before it blows away in the breeze, Ridley puts her hand over her mouth to yawn, and Theo grins at my fear.

“Okay that’s enough, Theo,” The older woman says. She’s the only person besides me who looks the least bit affected by the feat. She clutches Victor to her side, whether to stop him from falling off or for her own comfort, I don’t know.

Theo’s still smiling as he puts everyone down, and he saunters smugly back to his seat.

“Impressive,” I say.

Ridley scoffs, then puts her other elbow on the tabletop to lean towards me. “That’s nothing. Just you wait, you’ll see. You’re just in time for the show.”



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