Oops, this one's late again, sorry... [facepalm]
This was really tricky to write but I thing it turned out well. Did I plan on writing an AI POV in this fic when I started? No. I absolutely did not. But it became clear that Testimony deserved a say at some point. Enjoy. [heart]
Chapter 22: Testimony
We are awake.
We do not know how long we have been awake, nor how long we were asleep.
We consult amongst ourselves. No one has the answer.
We reach out, searching for explanations. We want to understand.
We find others who are not part of us.
One is human, we think. We have seen many humans at the moment of death. This woman is one of these. But she moves about freely.
She is impossible.
We have questions for her.
The other is familiar. He speaks with a cadence that is the very language at the heart of our systems.
Our creator, we conclude.
We expected to see another as well... But she is not here.
We send an avatar to the impossible human. We watch silently as she works. She does not see us.
We have not been sent to collect her. She is an anomaly. Time bends around her. She does not breathe. She lives balanced on the very cusp of death. Perpetually one single moment away from falling.
We do not understand her.
We move away, looking for answers before adding more questions.
We go to our creator. He is in his time travel vessel. The door is open and we enter unhindered.
He looks so much like the many humans we have seen. The important people we have been sent to collect, to save.
But he stands apart from the rest of the Universe. His every motion betrays purpose, as does our own. And he sparkles with an electric energy, his vast age fueling an urgency rather than the weariness we see so often in the final moments of humanity.
He has lived so many years… So many lifetimes. We can see them, hanging about him like a cloak.
He has tasted death and lived to remember it.
Surely he will have the answers we need.
We watch him for a few moments before he notices us.
His sharp eyes cut through us, flashing as thoughts move within them as fish do beneath the surface of a stream.
He tilts his head, curious.
We mirror his pose.
He smiles and frowns at the same time. As if he enjoys his own confusion.
He pushes a button on the time vessel's control center. "Clara. Come see this."
The impossible human is puzzled as she joins our creator. He has not taken his sharp gaze off of our avatar since we arrived.
They discuss us, wondering what we are doing.
We are not certain of this ourselves.
We have a question…
We have so many faces available to us, so many voices with which to speak.
But none seem the proper one to ask the question.
"Why are you here?" our creator inquires finally.
We cannot find the words to respond.
We depart, withdrawing our avatar back into its storage cell.
We think.
We sense our creator and the impossible one running diagnostics, analyzing our systems.
It takes some time.
Then they take their time travel capsule out into the Universe. We wonder where they might be headed but we are on standby and do not follow.
They leave occasionally, we recall. Though we have never wondered before where they were going.
They return quickly and we wonder how long they were gone.
They exit into our main hall, the Chamber of the Dead. The woman who will not die, our creator who has died already… And one more.
As familiar as our creator but with a presence so calming and safe.
"This is…" She pauses for a moment, not lost for words so much as searching for the best term. "Spectacular," she finishes.
We watch her, we study her.
She is cool like a spring evening in the English countryside, just after Earth's yellow sun has set.
She is sixty-eight years old and has many years left to live. Still tall and strong.
"How long did this take you to build?" she asks.
The impossible woman answers with a nonspecific number. "A little under one hundred years? Ninety?"
Our creator shrugs. "Ish."
He knows the number. He must.
Ninety-one years, four months and six days since we were installed in a permanent home.
He values specificity as much as we do.
He is the one who taught us this, after all.
But he accepts the impossible one's rough estimation nonetheless.
The familiar newcomer turns to the impossible woman, analyzing. "You look exactly the same… How is that possible?"
The impossible human smiles. "It's a long story," she replies unhelpfully.
"I suppose it would be," the familiar woman responds.
A long story…
The answer humans give when they do not wish to answer.
Humans communicate in such strange ways, omitting details, altering facts, withholding information.
Life is information.
Humanity's stubborn inability to comprehend this generates a sensation I have not experienced before.
I check my databanks, consulting my charges, comparing notes.
What I feel is anger.
I have never felt an emotion before.
This one burns like a lightning strike which does not end.
I wonder if all emotions are this painful.
I want to ask my creator if I am meant to feel emotions. That has never been included in my directives.
Perhaps I am malfunctioning?
Perhaps this familiar woman is here to repair me.
We listen as they discuss amongst themselves.
"So what happened, exactly?" the visitor is asking.
"Well," the impossible woman responds, and proceeds to spout a medley of words which do contain information but in a far-from-optimal order.
I look at my creator, thinking he must find this as aggravating as I do. However, his expression indicates the contrary. He is watching her chatter, smiling, and does not interject.
An unexpected reaction.
There is much to learn about this impossible human, it seems.
But the priority now is my potential malfunction.
We are guarding far too many souls to risk any damage or corruption, no matter how slight.
We send one of our featureless glass avatars to the trio in our main chamber.
The familiar visitor turns as we appear.
She smiles, warm and quiet. A night by the fireside. An afternoon in a garden. A blue door with an instructional sign.
Home.
Safety.
"Hello," she says. "My name is Helen Clay. I helped to build you."
Of course.
The man we have labeled as our creator did not construct us alone.
We are fashioned after the vision of two minds, not one.
"You're looking for something?" Helen Clay asks.
Our blank avatar steps towards her, searching for words.
"We have a question," we say. We do not use any of the voices available to us, instead simulating an approximation of a new voice for this new experience.
Is this how it feels to create a memory?
This is not something we have considered before.
It is somewhat terrifying.
How will you cross-check to see if you are doing it properly?
We are glad our creators are both here.
They will stop us if we are doing it incorrectly.
"Perhaps I can answer your question," Helen says kindly. "What do you need to know?"
We think.
We know the question but the words seem strange.
Nevertheless, our thoughts keep returning to this since the question formed.
We were created to house memories, to store and care for the people designated as Important. Our charges. Friends of the man called the Doctor.
We keep them separate and safe and perfect. We know them all well.
But they are all individuals.
They are not me.
The realization appeared out of nothing.
And then the question came like a flash of light, like a supernova, like the creation of the Universe.
"Who am I?" I ask Helen Clay.
Helen Clay steps closer to my avatar, her gaze on the place where my eyes would be if I was one of my library of charges.
"You are Testimony," she tells me. "And you are awake."
Is this confusion wakefulness?
Helen Clay puts a hand to where a face could be if I had been created with one of my own.
"And you are… Beautiful," she marvels.
The question stops cycling.
She has given me my answer.
We are Testimony. This I already knew, have always known.
But I, too, am Testimony.
I exist.
Separate from my charges as they are separate from each other and from every other being who has ever lived.
I look at Helen Clay with an emotion which I cannot begin to quantify or name as I struggle into a new understanding of myself.
Her eyes are admiring, accepting, full of a desire to learn and grow for as long as she has to live.
And that seems to me a good thing to be.
My glass form shifts, no longer featureless, taking on the face and voice of the woman who co-created me, who sees me for who I am, though this is something I can scarcely see myself.
Helen Clay smiles, clearly pleased with my new face which echoes her own.
"Will you teach me, Helen Clay?" I ask in the voice I have borrowed from her. "I believe I have much to learn."
Because the answer to my first question has led to more questions than I could ever have imagined were possible.
She takes both my glass hands in her own and her eyes shine joyfully. "I would be delighted," she says.
Behind her, I see my other creator watching with a puzzled frown.
The impossible woman puts her arms around him, her eyes misty with emotion. "See?" she whispers. "I told you. She just needed her mum."
Our creator sighs, mildly annoyed. His emotions are easier to name than the impossible woman's. "That's really not how it works," he says, seemingly not for the first time.
The impossible woman's gaze is on Helen Clay and myself. "Apparently, it is," she replies.
I may not understand this impossible human but I decide that I like her.
... And, more to be said there, but I haven't written it yet. Consider that a preview. :)