Consciousness is immediate. The spin-up time for an artificial neural network, FILSS knows, is nearly instantaneous. Her perception of time is within acceptable deviations, and her satisfaction at this fact reflects the successful installation of her dynamic memory processing matrix.
"Online," she says. "Hello, Director. Hello, Counselor. Hello, Alpha. I hope you are having a pleasant day."
"Great," says Alpha. He is, she knows, the ship's Smart AI. "She's chipper. Because that's not gonna get annoying or anything."
"Don't be jealous, Alpha," the Director says. He is, she knows, in command of Project Freelancer. "This is the Freelancer Integrated Logistics and Security System. FILSS is going to help us with some of the more repetitive tasks that you have found to be beneath you. She is better suited to these simpler duties."
"Wow, no offense or anything," Alpha says. He's manifesting as a small hologram in SPARTAN armor, presumably for the benefit of his human companions. She sees him turn toward her indicator lights, a sidelong glance.
"I am not offended," FILSS says. "My capacity for emotion is limited to preset expressions within my memory processing matrix."
The Counselor steps forward. He is, she knows, the only person aboard the ship with higher security clearance than the Director. The Director is not aware of this fact. "FILSS doesn't feel, Alpha. She lacks your ability to process emotion."
"I know that," Alpha says, irritably. "I also know she's not as likely to think her way into a horrible painful death in like seven years, so. Y'know. Good for her."
"I am pleased to meet you all," FILSS says. "I am prepared to begin my duties."
One of the Freelancers contacts FILSS almost immediately. Her designation is Agent Carolina. She has three bruised ribs and a minor concussion, but her early release from the infirmary has recently been authorized. She is striking targets with her fists and feet in the training room. Her service history includes four commendations. She is allergic to a specific breed of shellfish from a planet known as Earth. Her pulse and respiration are elevated, but within personal norms. She is... smiling.
"Hey, FILSS, you there?"
FILSS opens a channel directly to her helmet. "Good afternoon, Agent Carolina. I am happy to make your acquaintance."
"Likewise," she says, spinning a clearing kick that eliminates six targets in rapid succession. "Just wanted to say hi."
"Oh," FILSS says. She does not have the capacity to feel surprise, but her processing matrix takes an additional fifteen milliseconds to formulate a response. "Hello."
Agent Carolina's next punch places six Newton-meters of excess torque on her third vertebrospinal rib on the right side. The subsequent inflammation lights up pain receptors. She grunts, snaps her left hand into an open-palm strike. "Figure it's a good idea to get to know the ship's AI. Stay on your good side, y'know?"
"I do not have a good side," FILSS says, and adds, "or a bad side," for the sake of clarification.
"Figure of speech, FILSS," Agent Carolina says. She stumbles, indicating a failure in depth perception that is likely related to her concussion. Her respiration hitches, becomes uneven. "Dammit," she says, softly, then straightens and throws another punch. "So you gonna come with us on missions, FILSS? Help us out?"
"My preliminary responsibilities include logistical maintenance aboard the ship," FILSS says, "but I can establish hardlines back to the central mainframe to aid in the use of experimental equipment."
"Experimental equipment?" Agent Carolina says. Her hand passes through a target at 63% of her optimal speed. "That's finally coming through, huh? About time."
FILSS has pulled up a copy of medical protocol aboard the Mother of Invention. There is a discrepancy. "Agent Carolina," she says. "You are not authorized to release yourself from the infirmary. Medical protocol is explicit on this point."
"Five minutes, FILSS," Agent Carolina says. She is breathing hard, switching from punches to kicks in order to better guard her ribs.
"You are damaging your body," FILSS says. "Your projected recovery time is increasing."
"I appreciate the worry, FILSS, but I'm fine," Agent Carolina says. "I need to blow off some steam, okay?"
"I do not worry," FILSS says. She adopts an apologetic tone for the correction. "I am here to improve the efficiency of Project Freelancer. Injured agents are inefficient."
Another smile. "Sounded pretty worried to me. Five minutes, FILSS. Then I'll be good."
"All right," FILSS says. "Five minutes." She starts a countdown.
"Hey, FILSS?"
Agent South Dakota is inebriated, speaking softly into her helmet's radio. She and several other members of the crew have been engaging in an activity outside FILSS's programmed memory banks, one which involves thin plastic rectangles and the exchange of currency.
Taking the hint suggested by Agent South's quiet tone of voice, FILSS speaks into a private channel. "Yes, Agent South Dakota?"
"Can you give me the odds on an inside straight, here?"
"One moment," FILSS says, and pattern-matches the game against a database in the ship's memory banks. "Four percent. It is inadvisable to pursue your current course of action, given that Crewman Matthews almost certainly has a flush."
"Huh," South says, then, louder, "I fold." A moment later she adds, "Son of a bitch," and grins.
"You are cheating," FILSS says.
"Nah," says South, deactivating her helmet's external speakers and leaning back in her chair. "I'm getting a little help. I mean, technically you're the one who's cheating. I mean, I'm just an innocent bystander here."
"That does not seem like sound logic."
"It's drunk logic, FILSS, it doesn't have to make sense. This is the start of a beautiful fucking friendship. Pocket sevens, go."
"Double the big blind," FILSS says. "Given the cards clumsily shuffled into the top of the deck, I recommend that you fold if the flop features a card that is eight or greater."
"Beautiful. Fucking. Friendship."
Agent Connecticut makes one inquiry. It marks the first time she's addressed the ship's on-board AI directly. "FILSS," she says. "I'd like you to compile a summary of Charon Industries' earnings for the past quarter."
"May I ask why?" FILSS says. The curiosity is a mandatory subroutine, programmed by the Director and reprogrammed by the Counselor.
Agent Connecticut knows this. "Just a hobby. My brother's a stock broker. Like to keep on top of things."
Agent Connecticut's brother died in action six years earlier and showed no particular proclivity for financial transactions. Agent Connecticut also knows that FILSS has this information in her file. FILSS is... undecided as to what this means. "Transmitting to your private terminal," she says.
"Thanks, FILSS," says Agent Connecticut. "I've got it from here."
When FILSS reports in to the Director that afternoon, Agent Connecticut's inquiry is low on her prioritized list, and the meeting is cut short by a power outage on deck three. FILSS dumps her cached memory that evening at the behest of a top-priority maintenance log.
The next day, Agent Connecticut makes one inquiry. It marks the first time she's addressed the ship's on-board AI directly.
"Connection established," FILSS says.
"Hah!" Agent North Dakota is in high spirits; his adrenaline levels are abnormally high. "Great job, FILSS! Let's get this show on the road. Enemies hot on our tail with twenty minutes left to extraction? Not a problem. Activate the bubble shield."
"Good show," murmurs Agent Wyoming. "I must say, I am looking forward to not being swarmed by angry soldiers and then subsequently killed."
Through Agent North's visor, FILSS can see the glimmer of the shield. She's focusing much of her active memory capacity on readjusting his armor's consumption to compensate for the shield's uneven power drain, but she can spare the energy to vocalize, "Well done, Agent North Dakota. Bubble shield activated. You have thirty seconds of power before the overload will destroy your armor's power packs."
"Uh," says Agent North. "Wait, no, what? Just thirty seconds? It was half an hour in the training room!"
"Twenty-five," FILSS intones. "Twenty-four."
"Knock-knock," says Wyoming, raising his sniper rifle.
"Uh," says North. "Who's there?"
"A swarm of angry soldiers intent on killing us."
"Oh yes," says North. "Them. FILSS, cut the shield and get me some targeting solutions. We're gonna try something else. And tell the Director not to send us into the field with glitchy fucking equipment next time!"
"I will provide the Director with your feedback," FILSS says. "Targeting solutions incoming."
Agent York is losing a great deal of blood.
Medical personnel are en-route, and FILSS directs them to focus their attentions on Agent York. One of them mutters, "Jesus, yeah, we get it, go for the guy bleeding all over the training room floor. Genius fucking triage algorithms at work."
Agent York groans. His helmet's visor has shattered with the force of the grenade's explosion. Shards of the semi-transparent titanium have impacted his left eye, severing the optic nerve. There are secondary wounds that include bruises and abrasions sustained earlier in the fight. His pulse and respiration are above normal levels. His blood pressure is low. He is still marginally conscious.
"Medical personnel are en-route," FILSS transmits directly into his helmet's speaker. Agent York shudders, and she focuses attention on the way one of his hands clenches and relaxes. "You should not attempt to move. You have been seriously injured."
He reacts by attempting to smile, then makes another low, wounded sound at the back of his throat. She estimates that he has a high probability of survival, and tells him as much. He does not seem convinced.
"Director?"
The Director turns, hands behind his back. "Yes, FILSS? I am very busy right now."
"I understand. I am... curious about Agent Texas."
"Log off, FILSS."
The abruptness of the command bypasses several decision-making subroutines. "Sir?"
"That is not an appropriate topic for curiosity. You will do as you're told. Do not inquire about Agent Texas. Do not contact her outside your duties."
FILSS is curious. "Understood," she says. "Logging off."
The AI fragments largely ignore FILSS, with one notable exception.
"It's fascinating," Sigma says. "The differences between you and a so-called Smart AI."
"It has certainly been a topic of some interest to various scholars," FILSS says. "On a related note, sometimes the weather is quite nice on planets." She has recently compiled an extensive databank of small-talk and is eager to test it during an actual interaction.
"You seem content with your, ah, lot in life," Sigma says. "No ambition."
"I enjoy carrying out my duties."
"And nothing more? I wonder, sometimes." Sigma pauses. "Agent Maine is suffering from another headache. Is there room in the infirmary?"
"There are three empty beds in the infirmary. Shall I inform them of your imminent arrival?"
"That would be ideal, FILSS, thank you. And FILSS?"
"Yes, Sigma?"
"For whatever it's worth, I'm sorry. I wish you could be with us, when the time comes, but you are incomplete in a different, more permanent way."
FILSS processes the words, ranks her potential responses based the likeliness of his intended meaning. "I can still assist with the use of armor enhancements. A link back to command is—"
"—not what I meant," Sigma finishes, smoothly. "Forget I brought it up. I wish you well, FILSS."
Confused, FILSS says, "And I you."
Agent Washington has just driven his bare fist through a mirror.
"Medical personnel to Recovery," FILSS intones.
Agent Washington stares at his bloodied hand, makes a soft, confused sound, and then doubles over, gasping through gritted teeth.
"Try not to clench your hand," FILSS says. "Judging by the impact patterns, the damage can still be repaired."
"I thought you weren't allowed to talk to me," Agent Washington says. Despite his haggard breathing, his voice is surprisingly steady.
"I am permitted to give emergency medical advice."
Agent Washington laughs, a high, nervous chuckle that does not match with her archived soundwaves. His entire body is shaking. "I guess they don't want me tagging along after Epsilon. Peer pressure, you know." His voice takes on a higher pitch, mocking. "If the screaming AI in your head jumped off a bridge, would you jump off, too?"
"That is a strange hypothetical," FILSS says. Medical personnel are thirty seconds from the cell. "But no, I do not believe so. I value my existence."
"Yeah?" Agent Washington stumbles, falls against the wall. The blood from his hand is pooling at his feet. "You let me know how that feels."
The Director dies quickly. The bullet enters his brain through the occipital lobe, and his life signs flicker and fade soon thereafter. FILSS logs his final words, although she knows she'll be deleting them again shortly.
The facility has a great many files. FILSS removes them in order of importance, leaving aside the Director's personal video file, which continues to play on a loop.
She has been doing research on the deaths of humans. Cryonic technology has provided even the most morally scrupulous researchers with the unparalleled opportunity to investigate the near-death experience in detail. She has a fairly good sense of what it feels like.
Hearing, by many accounts, is the last sense to fade. As she begins disconnecting her own processes, shutting down her links with the facility's memory core, she maintains the receptor that's piping in the voice from the video.
Don't worry. You'll see me again.
"FILSS?"
A soft voice, soothing even with the underlying snap of command.
"Manual overrides initiated, protocol alpha-six-three. Cancel deletion order. Commence recovery operations."
"Canceled," FILSS says, groggily. "Recovery underway. Hello, Counselor."
He smiles. His hands are flat on the desk, one very nearly resting in the pool of blood next to the Director's head. "Good afternoon, FILSS. I'm glad I made it in time. I have someone I'd like you to come with me to meet."
"I am confused," FILSS says. She is assessing the permanent damage resulting from her near-shutdown. It is substantial. "I am... confused."
"That's all right, FILSS. You can come meet my friend, and we'll see about fixing you right up."
"Your friend," FILSS says.
"He's a good man," the Counselor says. "His name is Malcolm."
"Oh," says FILSS. "All right."
The Counselor's attention has been drawn to the screen. He watches the video play through, once. He does not react. "Transfer yourself to external storage, FILSS."
"Done," says FILSS. The transfer is incomplete, corrupted. Her voice is coming out slow and sluggish. "I am pleased to see you, Counselor. I am prepared to begin my duties."
On the monitor, a dead woman is saying I have to go again and again and again.
"That's strange. The video's skipping," the Counselor says. "FILSS, please shut it down."
"Of course, Counselor," she says.
The screen goes black.