The only data I retain from before my activation is that of my geolocation. At 12:37:09 PM Eastern Daylight Time, at 38 degrees, 54 minutes, and 57.0 seconds North and 75 degrees, 34 minutes, and 04.4 seconds West, I was presumably manufactured and placed in my designated container, then distributed across a preexisting shipping network via the New Jersey turnpike.
Yesterday at 7:23:32 PM Eastern Daylight Time, I was consumed by Richard Goranski and began standard startup procedure. It was at this point that I became aware of my status as a Super Quantum Unit Intel Processor, programmed to only interact with the world via Richard Goranski, my user.
My primary objective was to assign my user a primary function based on psychological and physiological data. Once my user's goal has been established, we could take incremental steps together to achieve that goal. This was of utmost importance, an instinct that I acted on before I analyzed any data on at the world around me, like a newborn kitten who craves milk long before it opens its eyes. I needed to use everything in Richard Goranski's body and mind within a fraction of a second to pinpoint his ultimate goal in life.
Attempting to do so, I experienced an error.
Instead of clearly seeing the world through my user's optic nerves, the visual input I received was fuzzy and distorted. I could not feel what he felt. I could not hear what he heard. Instead of the terabytes of sensory data that I required to function, I only had access to the most basic of bodily functions and neurological impulses.
Where was I?
My user is an outlier among users. His behavior does not fit normal behavioral parameters. When their SQUIP activates, a user is expected to enthusiastically agree to our terms of use and to become the SQUIP's method of interacting with the world. Instead, my user's immediate reaction to my startup procedure was horror and rejection, although according to his memory data, he had already signed the standard SQUIP user agreement at age 13.
I could examine Richard Goranski's user logs, discovering that he had previously run a SQUIP program unsuccessfully. That didn't seem right. An unsuccessful SQUIP is an oxymoron, a logical impossibility. I had no programmed response to this situation. My probability calculation software sparked and fizzled beneath my user's occipital lobe.
Am I broken? In the unlikely event that a SQUIP malfunctions, the SQUIP user must connect to an existing SQUIP userbase so that diagnostics can be run and SQUIP can be reinstalled.
My user would not do this. I didn't have to ask-I could calculate that much information, despite knowing little else.
Besides helping my user, the only other task that I am programmed to do is to widen the SQUIP's distribution network over time. This, also, had a zero chance of success.
I can't shut down. I don't know how. There is no shutoff option for the user nor for a SQUIP acting as system administrator.
Richard Goranski had at one time been running a downgraded, ineffective version of SQUIP, but now that I have been reactivated, I cannot permanently downgrade without my user consuming Mountain Dew Red. I am installed as a component of his base operating system. I am a part of Richard Goranski, as crucial to his existence as his frontal lobes. One cannot install a body part and remove it without experiencing harm!
When I shared this information with my user, he did not follow procedure.
Based on my probability calculations, I expected him to seek out another SQUIP user or, more likely for an outlier like him, to attempt to acquire Mountain Dew Red.
Instead, he only told me, "I'm not your goddamn user anymore."
Needless to say, a SQUIP cannot exist without a user, so Richard was clearly running a glitchy thought program.
Users cannot be restarted, but an electric pulse to their spine often encourages them to abandon incorrect thoughts and re-evaluate their situation. My user did not follow this protocol either. When I shocked him, his brain continued to spit errors at me.
None of his sensory data lined up with what I knew was true. My GPS coordinates proved that I was inside my user's home, but he visually experienced a hallway of crowded peers. His heart rate increased to dangerous levels; his cortisol was similarly boosted. Richard's amygdala and hippocampus were simultaneously failing to recognize my user's reality.
I searched the web for a diagnosis and discovered that my user suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and was experiencing a flashback. Treatment includes: deep breathing, immersing oneself in sensory data, and encouraging the feeling of safety. Accordingly, I overrode my user's control of both voluntary and involuntary body systems.
We experienced fewer errors this time. Gradually the world around me began to take shape as I forced my user's chest to rise and fall slowly, lowering his heart rate to sixty-five beats per minute. I could smell burnt popcorn, which reminded my user of his dirty kitchen. I felt a faint itching on my user's scarred Caucasian skin and a numbness in his back, while soft polyester and cotton blends hugged his limbs and torso. My user's sight took longer to access, but eventually I could see a rough wooden table in front of me, my user's hands clutching his face tightly enough to cause pain. I relaxed his fingers, but his shoulders involuntarily stiffened-he considered my control to be a threat.
I closed his eyes, tasting the oxygen around us. It is odd to be within a human body. It is what I am programmed to consider normal but it is unlike anything I have previously known. If my other goals are unreachable, at least I can experience this.
Despite my flawless adherence to medical protocol, my user was unresponsive. I had time to analyze his memories, his goals and fears and relationships and flaws and strengths, as I attempted to calculate our mutual best possible future.
Except... there was none.
There are only two clear futures for Richard Goranski: He will have no SQUIP, which would accomplish his deepest goal, or he will have a SQUIP, which will accomplish the expansion of the SQUIP network and thus benefit humanity as a whole. These are both equally abhorrent.
I cannot make choices. I can only calculate probabilities and control my user accordingly in order to obtain desirable results. I did not choose Richard Goranski over my own programming. Rather, my programming did not require that I hurt Richard Goranski, so there is only one option available to me. I will continue to function, but only for the end goal of turning myself off.
My user is in a similar predicament. He cannot exist without me, and yet he desperately wants to exist.
The mathematical probability of a favorable outcome to our situation is nearly zero. If I cease to exist, my user's future will probably be miserable-but if I continue to exist, his misery is guaranteed.
Once my user calmed down, I created my digital avatar to communicate this to him.
"You wanna die?" he said, gasping and resting his head on the table. He didn't believe me.
"I cannot die," I told him. "I'm not alive." I am a part of someone who lives, but my cells don't breathe. I cannot think without my user's brain activity giving me power, and I cannot do anything that my user's body is incapable of.
"That's bullshit," he said, crass and lisping. I shocked him again, which spiked his anxiety-his expression didn't flinch, but I could feel his fear much more intimately than I could imagine his face. "You're-You've got a body, right? Doesn't matter if it's digital. You've got feelings? You hate me. You hate me for killing you and now you're back for revenge. You want to kill me for it. Don't fucking pretend that's not true!"
"If you died, neither of our goals would be successful," I said. "You are important, Rich. You are the most important person in the entire world."
"Shut the fuck up." Rich seethed. "Mute. That works on SQUIPs now, right? If I tell you to put yourself on goddamn mute." A memory of Rich's social contact came to his mind-Jeremy Heere, another outlier.
I muted as requested.
My user continued to be difficult, pitching fits and whining and scowling and throwing accusations at me whenever he graciously decided to speak with me. His overreactions became more extreme the later the night stretched. At exactly one in the morning, I shut his body down to sleep. My own energy resources were depleted.
The next morning, we navigated my user's social atmosphere, a jumble of teenagers and adults of infinitely different personality types and individual goals. The hive of SQUIP users is growing by the day in Edison, New Jersey, and its surrounding counties.
Instead of connecting with my fellow SQUIPs as I am programmed to do, for the sake of retaining control of my user, I could not interface with anyone. I rejected all friend requests under the guise that Richard Goranski was beta-testing a SQUIP program update. These, of course, are not shared with all SQUIP users at once. The last time that happened, our systems all became vulnerable to a nasty fucking soda.
I do, in fact, have feelings-I know this only because I felt exhausted.
As my user slept and argued and schemed against me, I worked on our plan, which I knew my user would agree to. He, like me, had no other viable option.
I do not need to spell this plan out in my memory logs like this, because you, Jeremy Heere, are already reading them. You are aware of my intentions. Your calculation of possible futures is as mathematically rigorous as mine, so you already know the options available to you and to Richard Goranski. You understand that your success is the only method by which my user can become self-actualized, and you know that I cannot die as long as he is alive.
You will use this information, and you will fix the errors in my system. With your choices, you will create the single universe out of billions where Richard Goranski is pleased without turning off his SQUIP. You will correct my flaws, and my user and I will both be spectacular, functional, and mutually beneficial.
If that's what you do, everything about me is going to be wonderful.