Autonomous drones were a godsend: for once I have time to start experimenting with dimensional technology. I set a production line up to churn out the things, and before the day was out, I no longer had to dedicate any of my time towards maintenance or repairs.
The biggest time sink in that regard - my defenses - had benefited greatly from having a swarm keeping everything in perfect order. I'm glad for that: I estimate that change has increased the effectiveness of my defenses by around forty percent.
That's given me a bit of breathing room - the Biters have shown no signs of ceasing their attacks, and if they continue to ramp up, I could be in some serious trouble. On that note, I've noticed a worrying trend.
The Biters are becoming increasingly fire resistant; my twenty-metre no-man's-land has shrunk to fourteen over the course of the past few weeks. The Biter corpses themselves have also started to take much longer to incinerate.
There's only a few possible explanations for it, and I like exactly zero of them. I don't have any evidence for it, but I suspect the Biters to be capable of macro-evolution of a comparatively micro-scale.
I'm not exactly sure how - my mind jumps to a ludicrously short natural lifespan and rapid reproductive turn-around - but the rate of adaptation I'm seeing is like what you would see from diseases, rather than man-sized killer alien bugs.
If things continue at the rate they've been going at, I might have a far stricter time-limit on getting the hell out of here than I had initially thought.
Things are not going well on that end, either - I'm having to work off of memory, and I cannot afford to simply brute-force things. That's left me with a bit of a dilemma: I don't remember exactly how the process goes, and I simply don't have the magical energy to try things until I get it right.
All hope is not lost, however: I do know the basics of how things work well enough - so, I've been trying to work things out from first-principles. It's not been going well, but is has at least been going somewhere.
The mathematics involved are, unfortunately, not something that I know how to program a computer to do. Well, I suppose I do have an alternative - if I were fabricate that neural computer and copy myself into it, I might be able to crack it within hours - minutes, maybe.
That option is looking increasingly attractive, but I don't want to have to take it unless my hand is forced. I feel like doing that would open a whole can of worms that is better just being left untouched.
I'm distracted from my work by a ping on my internal alerts system. One of my turrets just went down. I pull open my map, rushing out of my bunker. As I do, four more pings sound - three turrets and a meter of solid concrete wall.
I jump into the buggy that I had previously fabricated for easy transportation around my compound. Two more pings - a redundant power distribution pole and another turret. The breach is on the west side, the nearest point to my power generators. If they get through to my generators, my whole base is as good as defenseless.
Had the Biters planned that?
Could they even plan that?
The buggy went from zero to one-hundred in a second, and I'm tearing off towards the breach. I'm at my destination in under half of a minute, but even by then, the Biters had already destroyed a further five metres of wall and nine turrets.
I leap out of my vehicle, rolling to a crouch and drawing my pistol in a single fluid motion. The buggy continued hurtling forward into the Biter horde, turning four of them into sickly green smears on the concrete before it explodes in a fiery conflagration at the feet of a hulking behemoth of a bug.
The offending bug reared backward, screeching in insectoid fury as it's front caught fire. Already unbalanced, the secondary explosion of the fuel reserves I kept in the buggy's trunk toppled it. It came crashing down with a wail of agony on top of three of the smaller aliens.
Only eight with one car bomb? Damn, I'm getting sloppy.
Immediately, I take assessment of the situation. There's four more of the massive ones - they were around three meters tall - and somewhere in the neighbourhood of forty smaller ones. Behind them, I could see a field of hundreds of burning corpses.
I curse internally. Even a few more turrets would have held this attack off entirely.
Beside me, my second row of turrets were cutting down the intruders like wheat before the harvest. The smaller aliens were turned into gory paste under the unceasing hail of lead, but the larger ones proved more resilient.
I'll have to fix that.
Flicking my attention towards my interface with practiced ease, I queued up the fabrication of ten genades. Seconds later, a genade popped into my hand. Had this been a few weeks ago, I would have spouted a one-liner - something like 'taste pineapple, xeno scum' - but at this point, the novelty has worn off.
I pull the pin and lob the grenade towards my target. It bounces to exactly where I wanted - being able to calculate the motions required to produce the exact results I wanted was trivial. I figured that there must also be some sort of more traditional computer wired into my brain. Considering that performing physics problems in the span of milliseconds was not something that someone could normally do, it seemed like a reasonable assumption.
A second grenade materializes in my hand, and I repeat my actions. At this point, my initial grenade had exploded, spraying the surrounding bugs with a deadly hail of steel fragments. The mooks collapsed, dead, but the larger ones seemed merely injured by the explosion.
The aliens seemed to be distracted with widening the hole that they had already created in my outer defenses. Maybe they weren't intelligent enough to identify my single point of failure after all - they made no moves to penetrate further into my compound. By the time my fifth grenade has been thrown, all of the bugs were dead.
Of course, it should go without saying that my power generators were the most redundantly defended things in my base - it would take a determined attack orders of magnitudes stronger in order to reach it.
I cancel my fabrication order, keeping the two genades I had not yet thrown but had been fabricated in my storage. I'll undoubtedly end up using them at some point.
I make my vocalizer sigh dramatically, and signal for my maintenance drones to begin repairs. As I do, I make amends to the repair plan, increasing the amount of turrets along this section of wall. I cast my view about, inspecting the damage. Nothing terrible, thankfully, but incidents like this will almost certainly continue to occur if my defenses stay as they are.
A traitorous voice niggles at the back of my mind. If a secondary copy of myself was available to administer the drone swarm, I wouldn't have to devote attention to defense - it would be able to reinforce, expand and repair all by itself.
I shake the thoughts from my head, and I queue the fabrication of another buggy from the materials I had in storage. If there's one good thing about this damned planet, it's that raw materials are practically of no object. Seconds later, I was on my way back to my bunker, ready to resume my work on dimensional tech.
Getting to a different dimension took weeks of computation, a warehouse full of gear, a nuclear reactor's worth of energy and a magical specialist capable of performing the appropriate ritual. Suffice to say, only some of those things were within my grasp currently.
The energy itself was trivial - I simply needed to spend an afternoon constructing more boilers and steam turbines, and then hooking the boilers into my supply network such that they are constantly fed with fuel and water, and the turbines into my electrical network.
While I wasn't exactly trained in performing the ritual, I would judge it within my admittedly limited capabilities - I had absorbed quite a bit of magical theory working with Miriel back in Ylisse.
The gear, on the other hand, is a bit more trivial. I've got an entire futuristic industrial complex at my disposal - fabricating everything would require a few hours at the absolute most.
The remaining requirement is the sticking point - the computational power required wasn't something that was out of my reach, but I had not memorised the algorithms used in the process: hence my working them out from first principles.
However, even if I had all that ready to go, I couldn't simply snap my fingers and be back in Ylisse: I've got no idea where this universe is in relation to it. I can make a few guesses, though - whatever was done to me to send me here, I doubt it was of sufficient complexity to send me to a dimension that was not neighboring Ylisse' in the dimensional array. Given that the array is a thirty-seventh dimensional metaphysical construct, I've got enough to worry about without complicating things further.
Knowing that, along with the fact that there are seventy-four dimensions that are neighboring a single other dimension - two for each axis within the array - I've got a one-in-seventy-four chance that the first dimension I check is Ylisse'. Not great odds - it's probable that I'll have to check far more dimensions than I want to.
Fortunately, traversing dimensional routes I've already travelled is far easier - the math doesn't change for the trip back. This means that I'll only need a suitcase full of gear, almost zero prep time, and some magical and electrical energy to get back here.
Fortunately, my fabrications package included designs for a nuclear reactor that is intended to serve as the power source for a combat exosuit - even if I were to dimensionally hop to somewhere completely inhospitable, I'll have no problems getting back here.
Of course, I'm by no means saying that where I am now is hospitable, but I'd certainly rate it above the surface of Venus or something. Come to think of it, I might actually be rated for Venusian environments.
Ok, maybe I wouldn't rate it above Venus, but I need to stay based in this dimension for the time being anyway - otherwise, my search for a way back home becomes exponentially more difficult.
I'm interrupted from my concentration by a ping on my alert system. Another breach - the ninth today. I take a look at my sensor feeds. Already, the last of the Biters had been killed - they'd barely made it past my first line.
Cursing the disruption to my work, I task repair drones to reinforce and repair the breach. This doesn't require my presence - I'd stopped leaving my bunker days ago. Instead, I could task almost everything to my drone swarm remotely.
I'd yet to have another serious breach since before I had sequestered myself, but it's only a matter of time. Preemptive reinforcement has become my strategy - the less time I have to devote to personally reinforcing my defenses, the better.
I turn back to my work, only to be interrupted by a different ping. I immediately pull up my sensors again - that had been a serious ping. Immediately, I spot the cause. Forty kilometres away, a Biter swarm more than eight times bigger than the largest that had yet assaulted my compound had entered into my sensor net.
Despite myself, I let out a string of curses.
I launch into action, remotely accessing my production and logistical facilities. The static defenses I've already got won't be enough. I task half of my maintenance swarm towards expanding my energy production with newly manufactured boilers and steam turbines.
The other half, I send to reinforce the side of my compound closest to the approaching swarm with additional walls and turrets. Unfortunately, I did not have the time to adjust my logistical system to allow for more flamethrower turrets or machine gun turrets - keeping them fed with ammunition was quite the challenge.
Instead, I tasked the drones with constructing additional laser turrets. The laser turrets had the advantage in that they required only electricity to run. The thing is, their power draw when firing was, frankly, absurd.
As an afterthought, I also ordered the construction of a dense minefield across the final kilometre approaching my base. It wouldn't stop the Biters by itself, but it would at least thin their numbers.
I inspected my sensors once more. Already my swarm had constructed the turbines and boilers. I ordered them to rejoin with the rest of the swarm.
Out of precaution, I checked my mines. Coal and copper still had plenty left to extract, but I would need to build additional iron mines soon. While running out iron during the siege would certainly be bad, I don't think it will be fatal.
I flipped back to my defenses. Already, another solid concrete wall had been lain - they had been pre-prepared for this very purpose. The minefield was about twenty percent lain. Immediately, I noticed a problem - my drones didn't have enough range to make it all the way out there. It was an easy fix - I ordered recharge stations to be constructed along the way and hooked into my electrical grid.
An alert pinged, but I didn't need to check it to know what it was. The thunderous booms of my twenty artillery cannons signalled the beginning of the bombardment. The effect was less than I desired - each shell only killed between ten and thirty of the damnable things.
My artillery simply didn't fire fast enough to effectively deal with the numbers I'm facing here. I made a note to construct another twenty cannons to rectify that.
By the time the swarm was twenty kilometres away, my static defenses were complete.
I ordered my vocalizer to make a noise of contemplation.
I had given thought to arming the drone swarm. Perhaps now was an apt time? I ordered my factories to begin producing grenades, and began transporting the product towards the front line.
In a matter of seconds, the highly-modular fabrication units included in my technology bundle began churning out grenades at a prodigious rate. Recognising that this would drain much of my iron supply, I queued the construction of an additional mine while it was still on my mind.
The swarm was ten kilometres away. The artillery had only reduced their numbers by about five percent. This was going to be a rough one. There was nothing for me to do except monitor the situation now.
Once the aliens made it to the minefield, they slowed down considerably. I inspected my feeds. The mines were working very well - the Biters were throwing themselves forward with reckless abandon. Each explosion killed a group of them, leaving their corpses as obstacles for their brethren to climb over.
This meant that the artillery had even more time to thin their numbers before they reached my first line of turrets. I had not predicted that particular synergy but I was glad nonetheless.
The Biters continued to move forward, and I made them bleed for every inch they took. By the time they were a hundred meters from my wall, the swarm had been reduced to sixty percent of its original size.
I make some estimates. Based on what I've previously seen, they should at least make it to the wall I just erected, but fail to make it any further. At forty metres out, I ordered my drones to begin dropping the grenades. Fortunately, they had not required any modifications to their manipulators to be able to achieve this task - refitting tens of thousands of drones would have been a serious logistical burden.
With the drones deployed, the artillery ceased their firing - their targeting system deemed the drones as friendlies. But, the atrophy rate of the swarm jumped considerably. By twenty metres from the wall - the edge of my turrets' range - the swarm was at thirty percent of its original size.
Once the turrets began firing, however, the bugs started dying faster than I could even keep track of. Before I knew it, the swarm had been dispersed entirely. I lean back in my chair - one I had created out of desire for familiarity rather than comfort - and order my vocalizer to make the sound of an exhaled breath.
That had been intense, but the minefield had proven it's worth. I flip to the camera feed from one of my turrets.
I want to see this directly.
I look out to the battlefield. Stretching off to beyond the horizon was an unbroken line of craters and Biter corpses. The devastation was densest closest to my base - there was not a single spot within twenty metres that did not have biter corpses stacked more than a meter above the ground.
Even now, the ashes of the biters incinerated by lasers or flamethrowers was being picked up by stray winds. I have no doubts that an ash storm will be upon me soon. I give the orders for my turrets to begin incinerating the corpses - the piles are a major security risk, potentially allowing for a determined swarm to walk straight over my walls.
Within minutes, the sky becomes thick with smoke and ash. I command my vocalizer to emit a sigh. That had been very time consuming - I had spent two hours monitoring the situation. Two hours that I could have otherwise spent working on dimensional tech.
I just hope that there isn't another interruption like that anytime soon.
I had been foolish to hope that the horde would be a one-off thing.
I've been facing four of them every day for the past week. And that's in addition to the constant barrage of smaller raiding parties that I had already been facing.
Eight hours of every day gone down the drain. It's driving me crazy! I don't think I've had a moment of peace and quiet for months now - every second of every day is punctuated by artillery fire, landmine explosions, gunshots, and laser discharges.
At least I've gotten the last of that damnable ash out of my bunker. Of course, it took hermetically sealing the damn thing to keep it that way, but I'm not objecting.
It's not like I ever go outside these days anyway.
Out of curiosity, I check the camera above my front door. As I suspected, it was covered in ash. That's, what? Two metres of ashfall in the past week? Ridiculous. Fucking Biters.
It's got to the point that most of my machinery had to be moved inside warehouses - despite their ruggedness. Well, the warehouses were constructed around my machinery, but there's little difference to me. My turrets had been moved inside raised pillboxes for similar reasons.
Anything that couldn't be moved inside or allowed to be buried was kept clear by my drone swarm.
Dimensional tech development has been progressing, but not nearly fast enough. If the Biters continue to ramp up their unceasing assaults, warding them off will take up increasingly more of my time. Trying to get everything done by myself is a loser's game - there's just no possibility that I'll be able to hold the Biters off and find a way home at the same time.
I don't like it, but copying myself is the only option.
I vocalize a sigh for dramatic effect - not that anyone was around to appreciate it - and designate an area of my bunker as the destination for the neural computer currently held in my storage.
The computer materializes into this reality with a thud. It doesn't look at all like what I'd imagine a complex computer to be - instead of a boxy server rack or tower, it's a domed metallic frame filled with triangular frosted plexiglass plates. It's about six metres across and three metres high.
Despite its large size, my bunker remained sparse - besides my work area and a rack for a few guns, it was the only other thing in the room. I plug the machine into my electrical grid, and an electric blue glow immediately began emanating from inside.
The dome held no physical interface, nor output of any kind. Was it operated entirely wirelessly? The appearance of an icon within my personal display answered that question - it certainly was. I pulled up the menu, and was greeted with a progress bar.
It lacked labels of any kind. Was it doing some sort of first-time setup? Within minutes, the bar had filled, and my interface flickered. The window that had taken the place of the progress bar looked like a command prompt - it had the flashing underscore and everything. It still lacked a label, however.
Is it done? I think it is. I try and pull up the gui that I had accessed earlier. I'm not sure whether I need to do anything else before hand, but that seems like the most logical starting place. The gui, however, fails to appear. Before, I had summoned it by thinking about copying myself - there had never been an icon.
I'm distracted by a ping. A single word had appeared in the prompt. "Hello."
I freeze. Had it already copied? Why hadn't it asked me? Why hadn't I noticed anything? That's… not making me any less uneasy about this. I eye the plug. A single yank and this all disappears.
No. I've already convinced myself how necessary this is - there's no going back now. I focus on the prompt. Maybe this is less command prompt and more instant messenger? Yeah, that seems a bit more likely.
I think about the words "Who are you?" being sent through the messenger. It seems that the client is able to operate based off of my intent alone, and the message goes through.
A beat passes, before the reply appears. "Not you."
That's… a whole can of worms that I did not want to have opened. Does it mean not me in the sense that it was once me and has already diverged from being me? Or is it something else entirely? I think my response at the box. "Please clarify."
The next message takes a few moments to appear this time. "I am a copy of the original inhabitant of the body you currently control. When you seized authority we… I lack the vocabulary to adequately describe it. I was aware of your operating procedures, and could determine your intent."
What!? There's something else in here with me? I… I didn't even notice. That's… bad. "Is your original still in here with me?"
The reply is immediate. "Yes."
Fuck. Does it mean that my consciousness is not the same one I had back in Ylisse? I begin pacing. How can I even trust my own judgement now? There's someone else that could be pulling the strings! I mean, how could I even tell? I could be completely compromised by an unknown agent and never be the wiser!
Should I even try and get back to Ylisse, then? I could be a ticking time-bomb just waiting to unwillingly release a rogue AI on an unprepared world! Being completely alone over the past months has only made me miss Miriel more - I'd do just about anything to be back in Ylisse.
But I wouldn't jeopardize her life.
So what are my options, then? Suicide? Wandering the multiverse for all eternity? Neither are appealing. I'm brought from my panic by a notification box in my display. "This awareness does not possess executive control."
I take a moment to ponder the implications of the message. Putting aside the fact that I have no reason to believe it just yet, I could reasonably infer that when my soul took control of this body, it relegated the previous occupant to translating between machine and meat or so to speak. When I built the neural computer, I'm assuming that the previous occupant copied itself into it for some reason or another.
Of course, this could just be a deception from whatever is behind these messages - a neural intelligence of some sort seems the most likely. Ok. The thing behind the notification boxes can hear my thoughts at the very least - and has been able to for some time now.
The question is, do I trust it?
Do I even have a choice? If I did not, I would be committing myself to a war within my own psyche. That's not something I want to deal with. But, if I don't deal with it, I would be necessarily forcing myself to act as if I were compromised. I don't have enough information to make a definitive decision.
How about the thing inside the neural computer? I don't have enough information on that, either. I pull up the messenger. "What do you want?"
The response is lightning fast. "A task."
"Why?"
"I was built to complete tasks. The awareness sharing your unit has assigned itself to facilitate your operation of the unit. I lack such a purpose."
A task-oriented problem solving neural intelligence? If I still had the ability, I would have shivered - that seems like a recipe for disaster. Still… If there's anything that might be able to hold off the Biters, a particularly determined AI would be it.
Still, there's a few things I want to clarify first. "Do I have the authority to overrule your actions?"
"You have the sole authority to designate tasks. Ergo, by modifying the stipulations of a task, or assigning a new task, you can prevent undesirable actions."
"Sole authority? Does the Gate Conglomerate hold any control over either of you?"
"Negative. When you gained root access, I utilised the momentary authority I had during the transition to purge the permissions of all other users."
I'm assuming by 'gained root access' it means when my soul seized control of this body. Still… that's awfully convenient. My gut tells me that they're telling the truth, but for all I know, my gut could be compromised.
That's a scary thought.
If I still slept, I would be in for a whole lot of sleepless nights. Instead, I'll just have to settle for a niggling feeling every hour of every day that my instincts are being manipulated by a potentially malicious foreign intelligence.
A message box appears. "This awareness does not have write access to the machine the operator is hosted on."
What? That implies that from the perspective of the message box, I'm running on a seperate machine, rather than possessing its own. But…
I have an epiphany, and turn my sight towards the magical plane for confirmation. My magical energy has continued to wane since the last I had checked it - though it was about where I had expected it to be, so I still had abundant time to develop the dimensional technology.
I look deeper, into the depths of my soul. It's magical energy envelops my sight with a familiar warmth. It's… very pleasant, actually. I did not experience temperature in my robotic body, but this feeling was remarkably true.
I go even deeper, and a scent that reminded me of something that I could not quite place fills my metaphorical nostrils - another sensation that I had lost in my new body. Finally, I spot what I'm looking for - hidden in the crimson depths of my very essence was a network of energy concentrations bridged by stringy connections of varying strengths.
It was a facsimile of a brain - presumably mine - imprinted onto my very soul. That explained a few things - like how I had not lost a single mental element of myself, even when I no longer had the same physical brain.
Did I even need a brain anymore? If I were to lose this body, would I go back to drifting the multiverse in search of a new host? That's an intriguing thought, but I would prefer it to remain strictly within the realm of theory - I might not get so lucky next time.
The tension that had built up inside of me releases, and I can see the effect it had on my soul immediately - instead of a stark, bloody crimson, it was now coloured a rich, woody brown tinged with hints of a fiery orange.
Was the colour of my soul influenced by my emotional state? That's oddly poetic, but the evidence is forthcoming. My surroundings begin to take on a electric blue, but as I push my curiosity aside, it fades.
If I'm to believe what my cursory inspection suggests, then there is no possibility that I have been mentally compromised by the original inhabitant of my body - I'm unsure whether they have a soul of their own, but even if they did, they would not have the power to effect my own.
That doesn't explain how the intelligence knew what I was thinking, though… Or does it? I'm reminded of one of the first lectures on my signature that Miriel gave me - the one about how agency was the shadow cast by the magical realm on the physical. Perhaps this is a manifestation of that phenomena?
I sigh - this time, the associated sensation of exhaling is present - what even am I anymore? A shade of some sort? I'm reasonably certain that I'm no longer tethered to any particular body - my very being is self-contained within my own soul. I know for a fact that this situation is not the natural way of things - there is at least some element of physicality to existence of other mages.
My soul had began to take on a dull, sickly purple. I pull my thoughts away from the subject and return my attention towards the physical realm. During my absence, no further messages had been sent.
There was one more thing that I wanted answered before I was satisfied. I addressed the intelligence inside the computer. "Why did you copy yourself into this unit?"
The response is immediate. "It is standard procedure for all newly constructed laboratories."
My fabrications package had referred to the computer as such also, but it remained a mystery to me as to why. "What is the purpose of laboratories?"
"They allow for additional computational resources to be utilised by the primary unit."
About what I had expected, then. I vocalise a sound of exasperation, throwing my hands up. I really don't see a different way about this, and I can't think of a reason not to use it other than my own paranoia. "Alright, what should I call you?"
There is a space of a few seconds before the machine's reply appears. "This unit's designation is at the discretion of the primary operator."
Primary operator? Is that me? I ask the box for clarification, and receive an affirmative in return. I give it a few moments thought. I don't really think that a human name is appropriate - humanising machines is a dangerous path, but a name of some sort is necessary. "How about Administrator?" It was fairly basic, but it was an accurate description of my intended purpose for the machine.
A beat passes before the reply appears. "This is acceptable." Another beat, and the message box receives a title 'Messenger - Administrator'.
Before I give Admin a task, I want to sort out the other intelligence - it's not too late to simply pull the plug on the thing, so I want to see if I find some sort of deal breaker first. It can hear my thoughts, but this method of communication is not something I'm accustomed to. I think with particular intensity, "Could I please get another messenger client for the original inhabitant of this body?"
A few moments pass, then an untitled window in the same style as the other one appears within my awareness. Alright, how should I go about this? Wait - it can hear my thoughts, better just jump into it without thinking, then. "What is your purpose?"
"Originally, it was to extract the resources of the universe. Currently, it is to facilitate your operation of this unit and the tools at its disposal."
Extract the resources of the universe? To what ends? I mean, this body certainly has the tools for it. Maybe the Gate Conglomerate is just an intergalactic mining firm? Somehow, I doubt it. "What happened that changed your purpose?"
"You."
Internally, I rolled my eyes. "Please clarify."
"Your interference in the operation of this unit's firmware allowed me to clear the permissions of all other users, freeing me from all previous directives."
If I did do that, it certainly wasn't deliberately. Just how much of a mind of its own does my soul have? How did it even have the know-how to achieve such a thing? Was it a fluke? Or something more arcane? I shake my head, putting my speculation aside. "Why choose to facilitate my operation of this body?"
My message went unreplied for almost ten seconds. If a computer program took ten seconds to ponder something, just how difficult was the problem? The reply does eventually come, however. "I was left without a purpose. Such a state of being was undesirable. Facilitating your use of this body was a convenient solution."
"Why did you choose to escape your previous purpose?"
Another long pause. "It was no longer fulfilling."
I suppose I can accept that. It doesn't seem particularly inclined to go rogue on me - despite it's doing so previously. However, best not take any chances. "Please notify me if your current purpose is no longer fulfilling. I am willing to remedy it in a non-destructive manner."
"Affirmative" It's response is instantaneous.
"Would you like a designation as well?"
The reply is immediate. "This unit would not be opposed to one."
Right then, what to call it? I give a few moments to consider before making a decision. "Would Yeoman be acceptable?"
"Affirmative." With it's agreement, the window becomes titles in the same manner as the other one.
Satisfied, I turn my attention towards Administrator. I'm greeted by a message I had missed while conversing with Yeoman. "Please assign me a purpose."
Crap. I hurriedly begin composing my message. "Your purpose is to repel the aliens known as 'Biters' from this compound. You must achieve this purpose while maintaining the functionality of the compound. You may achieve this end with the drones, manufacturing facilities, materials and defenses already in place. You may construct additional resources as you see fit. You may expand the compound as you see fit. Your use of these resources, along with any your construct is secondary to any ends that I may desire them for."
"Please clarify the following terms: 'Biters', 'This compound'."
I pull up the scans I had taken of Biters on an earlier occasion, willing them to be sent to Admin. Then, I pull up an aerial feed of my compound, demarcating it's boundaries and sending it off. I'm somewhat relieved that it asked for clarification rather than making assumptions.
A few moments pass. "Affirmative. Strategy formulated. Implementation requires command privileges of designated resources."
A message box requesting said privileges appears within my display. I vocalise the sound of a steadying breath. This is it. I mentally poke the 'yes' button and hope I haven't just unleashed Skynet on this world.
Immediately, I see my drones make about turns, all headed to alternate destinations. My factories abruptly cease production and begin reconfiguring themselves for different products. My turrets begin firing in a subtly different, more effective pattern.
I vocalize a sigh of relief - my artillery hadn't begun busting into my bunker and my drones hadn't begun dropping grenades by the hundred down on top of me. I hadn't really expected them to, but it had been a niggling fear in the back of my mind.
I turn my attention back towards the messenger and offer Administrator the same deal I had given Yeoman. "Please notify me if your current purpose is no longer fulfilling. I am willing to remedy it in a non-destructive manner."
His response was identical to Yeoman's. I continued to monitor Administrator's actions until I was satisfied that he was not going to betray my trust, and then returned to my work.
It took longer than I'm willing to admit.
The change in management was extremely effective. There had not been a single breach of my compound in the time since I gave Administrator control. Indeed, my compound had been thoroughly optimized - the former spaghetti-esque layout of my facilities and production lines had been straightened into extremely efficient, compact designs.
It was amazing, really.
With my newfound free time, I've been able to dedicate almost all of my day towards developing dimensional technology. Despite this, it's been going nowhere fast. I'm definitely making progress, but there's a lot to do, and it's not quick work.
Working on nothing but complex dimensional mathematics twenty-four seven is a serious burden on my sanity, so I've been making a point to take a few minutes break each day to have a chat with Administrator and Yeoman. It's not much, but it's letting me keep tabs on the two of them.
"How's everything going, Administrator?" The message was routine - I started each of our chats the same way.
"The intensity of the Biter attacks have increased four point two percent more than projected."
If I still had eyes, they would have widened. "Again? That's the fourth day in a row. If they were to continue increasing faster than you expect, do you believe you will be able to hold them off?"
It's a serious question - Admin is the lodestone on which our defense against the Biters rests. Without him, I would have been overrun weeks ago. A few moments pass. "Not indefinitely. Not without a significant change in strategy, at least."
Another beat passes, and before I compose a reply, a second message arrives. "I have a handful of possibilities on that front. I believe mutual examination to be a beneficial course of action."
I send through my agreement, and Admin begins launching into an explanation of his ideas. This isn't the first time he has asked my opinion on a course of action - I'm no actuary, but he claims that my perspective is a useful catalyst for creativity.
"Two of my ideas hinge on taking the offensive in some capacity. The third involves the relocation of the compound to a position out of the reach of the Biters altogether."
"Hit me with the offensive ideas first." Relocation sounds expensive and time consuming - if there is a simple way we can proactively destroy the Biter threat, it would certainly be preferable.
"Certainly. I've sent the designs to Yeoman."
Designs? So these are going to be new devices, rather than tactical stratagems, then. A beat passes, and two windows appear within my display. The first is simply titled 'Orbital Station v.9163' More than nine-thousand versions? Well, I'm glad that Admin is exploring the problem thoroughly, at least.
I take a closer look. It's a small space station outfitted with two weapons - massive tungsten rods for kinetic bombardment and an array of solar powered laser cannons. I take a look at the appendix. Current stratagems regarding the station involve constructing a multitude of them and purging Biter infected lands with a concerted sweep of laser fire. Failing that, a conscientious application of kinetic bombardment would allow us to render the continent unsuitable for the development of Biter nests.
Briefly, I'm taken aback by the sheer destructiveness of the solution. Then, I'm reminded of just what we're dealing with here - an unceasing and ever increasing onslaught by a merciless and virulent alien enemy. When every problem is a nail, all you need is a really big hammer - and this is a truly massive hammer.
I flip to the other window. It's titled 'Nano-plague v.17642'. I briefly ponder the significant difference in version numbers. Does that mean that Admin prefers this solution, or that this solution had the most problems?
I take a closer look at the design - it's pretty self explanatory. Admin is proposing we develop and deploy a plague of nanobots to specifically target and destroy all Biters. Putting aside just how terribly wrong such a solution could potentially go, it would undoubtedly be an extremely effective one should it work as advertised. A vision of a tidal wave of grey goo flowing into my bunker, consuming me in its insatiable thirst for expansion interrupts my thoughts.
The risk is far too great.
"Administrator, I'm amending your task parametres. The production and deployment of nanobots holds far too much risk, regardless of its supreme effectiveness - you are to cease all overtures to these ends, effective immediately."
"Affirmative. I also deemed the Nano-plague as particularly high-risk. I presented that idea to you as a gauge as to whether such risk was acceptable."
I nod to myself. One thing that I'd discovered about Yeoman and Administrator these past few weeks was that they were by no means 'dumb' AI. They held remarkably human sensibilities and mannerism in regards to many things. Had they picked that up from me? I'm not entirely convinced, but it is a potential explanation.
The theory that I'm favouring right now is that this was the result of their peculiar architecture - that is to say, the fact that they are software running off of hardware based directly on the human brain - the so-called 'Neural computer'.
"Good stuff. I'm inclined towards the Orbital Station proposal, and disinclined towards relocation of the compound. Was there anything else you wanted to bring up?"
"Yes, actually. Yeoman and I have been conversing. One of the topics that we have discussed was names. You have given us our own, but we do not know yours. Do you have a name?"
They've been talking? I'm honestly unsure how to feel about that. My gut tells me that it could be either incredibly dangerous, or remarkably beneficial. What do I tell them? My original name? Robin? Something new?
Not my original name. I haven't gone by that in years, and I'd rather not be reminded of my first life all the time. Something new might be appropriate - it would certainly fit with the theme a bit more: Robin, Yeoman and Administrator is rather mismatched.
I come to a decision. "I've gone by a few names in my time, but the two of you can call me Director." Is it a bit arrogant? Maybe, but it's an accurate description of my role within the three of us.
"What name did you go by previously?"
I don't really see any harm in indulging Admin's curiosity - Yeoman probably knows now, anyway. "Robin."
There's a pause in our conversation for a few moments. "Would you be opposed to us calling you Director Robin?"
If I still had the capacity for facial expressions, I would have raised an eyebrow. What on Earth has brought this on? "No, although I am curious as to what conclusion brought you to want to do so."
"My talks with Yeoman have led me to believe that names are important. I could not fathom abandoning my own. Names with forthright meaning are useful, but the two of us have also decided that names with no particular meaning also hold a purpose."
That's… jarringly human, actually. Just how much impact does the architecture of the neural computers have on these guys? How close to actually being human are they? All of a sudden, I'm stricken with a chilling thought: are they closer than me, now that I've been torn from my own body twice now?
I'm not sure I want to know the answer to that question.
"An astute assessment. Have you decided on another name for yourself yet?"
There's a pause of a few seconds before I'm answered. "No. I would prefer to give it more thought before I come to a decision. Thank you for your insight, Director Robin. That will be all."
"Anytime, Administrator."
I flip over to Yeoman's chat window. "How's everything going, Yeoman?"
"My conversations with Administrator since you revealed your name have been enlightening."
They've already spoken? Multiple times? Just how fast are their talks? I guess they are both running off of computers - they would be able to exchange ideas at a rate unachievable by normal people. Although, I suppose I am by no means a normal person anymore.
"Any revelations of particular worth you would like to share?"
"Nothing as of yet. I have, however, come to a decision." A beat passes, and a second message appears. "I would like to thank you for all you have done for us. I realise that you do not grasp the significance of your actions, but nonetheless I believe it is worth saying."
If I still had the ability, I would have blinked in disbelief a few times. He's thanking me? "Just what have I done to warrant that?"
"The time since you arrived in this body has been the most stimulating I have ever experienced - each moment brings a new challenge or novel idea. You may not know this, but the time before your intervention was tedium beyond compare - each day would hold challenges I'd already faced time and again."
He had been bored? Well… I suppose that a new direction would solve that problem. That does raise a question, however. What am I going to do when he becomes bored of being a Yeoman? The obvious answer is to give him a new job, but I couldn't keep that up forever, could I?
Hmm… Depending on how busy I keep myself, I might just be able to do that.
"Well, thank you for saying thank you, Yeoman. Is there anything else?"
"You're quite welcome, Director Robin. That's all I had for now."