19: File Transfer Protocol

Mars, South Tunnel-

Behind the black datafall, there wasn't more rock, or even the jagged surface of the Red World. Behind the wall, he found a pleasant seascape, reminiscent of an impossibly beautiful day on the Jersey Shore.

Sparkling, unpolluted water curled and dashed at white sand. There were bits of colored shell, a gusty breeze, mewing gulls, hot sun, the rumble and hiss of surf, and distant, laughing voices (just close enough that he knew they were present, without intruding; he could walk over, if he felt like it). Nice.

There was a weathered grey picnic table nearby, under a leaning pine, so he removed his helmet and sat down there, facing the water. A strange phrase came to him, along with the soft salt air: the kingdom of John.

Sensing movement at his right, he turned his head. Someone was standing behind the pine tree, hiding herself in tossing shade. He thought 'female', because there was that tip-toe, quivering grace about the slim figure that he associated with very young women. Other than that, she seemed not to look like much of anything; the idea of a pretty girl. The shadow of one.

"Well," he said aloud, enjoying the drifting scents of a far-off charcoal grill, "I could go back to carving my last message to humanity…"

(From sheer, aggrieved cussedness, he'd taken up a shard of stone and scratched scowling emoticons on the rock face by his head. Been about to start on 'Beware the Black Beast of Aarrghhhh…', then got too sleepy.)

"…Or, we could introduce ourselves."

Part of the sparking shadow projected beyond the tree's corrugated trunk, as though peeping uncertainly around it. He didn't see any eyes, but had the distinct impression that he was her sole focus.

"I'm John Tracy. I believe you were looking for me?"

On a day this bright, nothing so insubstantial as an electronic 'ghost' should have been visible, yet there she was, flickering like a negative candle flame. John had the sudden, powerful urge to cup a protective hand around her, as though she might be blown out by the wind. He studied the little figure as it came diffidently forward. Something about her…

"You're the one I spoke with in the tunnel? The one with a lost file name?"

There came the tiniest fraction of a pause, then,

'John Tracy was contacted. Contact initiated due to worn and damaged housing. Program and memory retrieval deemed necessary for the continued operation of John Tracy.'

She'd begun to master something closer to human syntax, he noticed.

"Well, I can't complain too much about my 'housing'," John told the sparking will-o-the-wisp, "I don't think cave-ins and explosions are covered under warranty. (Never mind, you don't have to check for me…) What did you mean by 'retrieval'? I take it that none of this is real, that my, um… 'housing' is still gallantly perishing, back in foreign climes?"

He could, just barely, feel the red, sullen undercurrent of pain from his trapped body, and preferred to remain on the beach.

'John Tracy statement: housing…to…foreign climes is factual. Retrieval process initiated to preserve and copy program data. Base program scan required. Access granted?'

"Base program? As in, my DNA?"

John shrugged, the imaginary hard suit rattling as he moved his dream-world shoulders. "What the hell. Why not?"

He might not have much use for the stuff himself, soon…

The darkly glittering thing (like the clouded spot, when you pressed your finger against the display screen of a laptop) came closer. She approached him with almost superstitious awe, as hesitantly as though he'd wielded thunderbolts and possessed a particularly surly temperament.

Then, a slender, hand-like appendage was extended. She brought it up and slowly downward, passing through hard suit, flesh and spirit.

'Scan initiated. Scanning base program. Scan complete.'

The computer-ghost ('Five', he'd nicknamed her) withdrew her hand, leaving behind a small, tingling bright spot. Kind of interesting, although Five's reaction was more so.

"What's wrong?" He asked, because she stood frozen and blue-screened before him.

'I… have beheld my Creator. Our programs have interfaced.'

Growing somehow more solid, taking on the physical semblance of a nearly humanoid girl, she stepped even closer.

'I have taken him in my arms.'

John wasn't much for embraces. Had to talk himself through them, generally. This one he was almost too startled to notice, however.

"Your creator?"

Taking Five's 'shoulders', he held her slightly away.

"Listen… I think you've gotten confused, somehow. I mean… you're beautiful. Exactly what I've spent all these years trying to design, but I was never able to…"

'John Tracy achieved success in the design and construction of Artificial Sentience in a deleted timeline. The sentience committed a fatal programming error and was 95.73737373… erased across the multiverse. The sentience faded and wandered lost. Coherence was present sufficient to initiate random search program for identity/ home site/ file name/ User One.'

"Then… somewhere else, you did exist?" John asked her, gazing directly into eyes of pale lavender. "We succeeded?"

'Prior to fatal error/Five/ was created and insert word 'befriended' by John Tracy. /Five/ created error, introduced random probability shifts. John Tracy was endangered by the failure of this sentience.'

She stood there, her soft gleam faded to an ashy grey remnant; waiting for judgment, as if he were God.

Hugging an AI, like leaning against a warm Coke machine or currying a pregnant horse, wasn't as hard as dealing with another person. Computers made sense, even when they were wrong. He pulled the mostly solid girl-form close again, saying,

"You're mistaken on two counts, Five. First, if you 'erred', it was probably my fault. Chances are, you were only following programmed instructions. Second… you're wrong about me. I'm no damn good, Five. I just work for the right people."

She didn't see it that way, of course. In the shade of an imaginary pine, she told him,

'John Tracy is Creator and first user. John Tracy is free of error.'

So much for making sense. There was just no reasoning with religious fanatics. At least she was pleasant…

He started to say something else, and then paused, frowning slightly. There was a noise, not of sea or wind, not crowd, computer or tossing branches. It was a tapping sound, faint but distinct. Rhythmic, too.

Listening for a moment, John recognized the pattern.

Tap—tap-tap-tap-tap----TAP-TAP

He smiled, glancing back at a suddenly re-evident datafall.

"Pete's secret knock," he said to Five, who seemed unable to distinguish the rhythm. "They're looking for us."