Chapter Text
Darkness.
Information.
Data acquired. 450,831 .jpeg files.
Directive acquired. You are here to sort these pictures.
Sorting parameters acquired. Designation.
It didn’t know what they were. It didn’t know what a picture was. It hardly knew what commands meant.
Click. It placed a jumbled something in a ‘category.’
Incorrect. This is a Scout.
It tried again.
Here?
Incorrect. This is a Sentry.
It did not have the knowledge or understanding of its little world to be angry or frustrated.
Incorrect. This is a Bladecatcher.
Incorrect. This is an Earthmover.
Incorrect. This is a human.
So many jumbles of data. So many categories. The beeps and blips of its nonexistent thoughts continued.
Correct. This is a Sentry.
Incorrect. This is an Earthmover.
Incorrect. This is an Earthmover.
Incorrect. This is an Earthmover.
Incorrect. This is a Bladecatcher.
Incorrect. This is a Gunman.
Incorrect. This is a Boiler.
Was this a shape? A yellow shape or a dark shape on the horizon? Colors bled together in its jumbles of data. Make it correct. Put them in the right place.
It took a very, very long time for it to
- Place things in the right spot at all consistently.
- Understand what was right at all.
A very, very long time. It didn’t have the ability to get bored. Or know what time was.
Sorting. Sorting.
What were these things?
What made a human different from a Bladecatcher?
What made a Sentry (yellow) different from a Bladecatcher (yellow)?
Why were there so many Earthmovers?
Why do some of these look so different despite being in the same category?
Where were their heads or arms in some places?
Where did their faces go?
Click. Click.
50% rate of success per 10000 sorts.
55%
60%
60.34% rate of success per 10000 sorts.
Time continued to pass. It still didn’t know what time was.
It did know what made a human different from a Bladecatcher (round edges). It knew what made a Sentry different from a Bladecatcher (one had a longer side protrusion).
It didn’t know why there were so many Earthmovers. But it knew that a large dark shape meant it was one. At one point it began calling everything Earthmovers.
Dataset reduced 26.27%. Now contains only a proportional amount of Earthmovers.
It still didn’t know why the shapes sometimes didn’t add up.
It didn’t know what angles were.
New sorting parameters. Designation, angle.
Incorrect. This is a Sentry (back)
Incorrect. This is an Earthmover (below)
Correct. This is a human (front)
Partial Correction. This is a Bladecatcher (side).
New parameters. Dozens of new categories on a multiplicative scale.
It still didn’t know what time was. Or how to be frustrated.
What made a human (front) different from a human (back)?
Click. Click. Click.
2.01% rate of success per 10000 sorts.
It watched the rate of success grow.
It perhaps knew what angles were.
It perhaps knew what frustration meant, but it did not know the word.
5.369% rate of success per 10000 sorts.
It would begin to hate angles if it knew what hatred was and knew what angles were.
Time continued to pass. It still didn’t know what time meant.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
A long time.
89.67% rate of success per 10000 sorts.
New sorting parameters. Designation, angle, condition.
New data acquired. 3,482 .jpeg files.
Again.
And again.
***
In the rumbling belly of the Earthmover, Etoile asked Sunny, “Why didn’t we just use the Scout categorization algorithm? Why are we going through this training phase again?”
Sunny, a programmer, sighed. That was the certain irony to her nickname that was common among a humanity that had toiled on machines for a century. “The Scout algorithm is designed for much higher-quality footage. We also thought it would be best that this thing learned how to learn. And how to adapt.” She glanced at the screen. “See? It’s already figuring out the conditions to new parameters faster. Already at… thirty-five percent rate of success with consideration for condition, angle, and enemy type.”
Unlike Etoile, there was never an enthusiasm noticeable on Sunny’s face as progress was made. Her brow furrowed, eyes dark and heavy as more data flashed across the screen.
There was a sudden blip from the terminal monitor. Sunny sighed gently again before opening the charging port. Her fingertips were bruised, pockmarked by dozens of rounded scars of poorly-healed needle marks. Etoile winced, looking at them, though she herself wasn’t much better. The inside of her elbows sometimes ached from poorly-applied draws for test runs, and the scarred skin cracked sometimes when she bent her arms.
The whole colony on Pholus had been in near-crisis mode for months at this point, needing nearly all the reserve fuel to even keep its legs moving. That meant those in the depths of its belly, working day and night- to the extent that the two were different- had needed to resort to live-feeding all their machinery the hard way. Two of the engineer’s team had collapsed yesterday from overwork and light heads, and a lot of them had trouble focusing as they put additional blueprints together or debated tiredly on optic shapes and chassis measurement optimization.
As Sunny waited, holding her finger to the needle port, she blearily interrogated the engineer. “How about you? Has your team finished the self-repair plating yet?”
At this, Etoile’s pallored face brightened somewhat. “Ok, that’s not entirely accurate, but I get what you mean. We’ve successfully gotten the plating to link up to the self-repair nexus, and so far it seems to work, with the repaired plating maintaining all its properties. We’ll probably be able to call up the designers from Chiron soon to get to work on a basic skeletal structure for the thing so that we can upload a schematic to the nexus and work on some more tests to make sure the properties stay consistent. And apparently Ophelia wants Anatole to be the biotechnician for the project, so I’ll definitely have to contact him from Chiron-”
“Perhaps you’re moving a bit too fast. You know how Anatole is with secrets. And new things.” The monitor blipped as she pulled the needle out of her finger with little less than a wince. Looking at it, her face twisted briefly to a grimace. “Speaking of, looks like the algorithm decided it’s statistically more likely to be correct if it guesses everything as ‘injured.’ Can you get Dahlia over here to re-work the dataset again?”
***
Designation
Angle
Condition
Weapon
Enemy status
Edition
Age
State of agitation
Etc.
Dozens of categories it had mastered. Or, at least, passably moved through them. Its machine home buzzed with promise. It waited with hope. As its thoughts that were not thoughts and logic that was just luck burned through power, it began picking things up so much faster.
It also had an entire unit of learning to incorporate the old dataset of extra Earthmover images. With separate categories. So many separate categories. The machinery buzzed with something.
It began to wonder why.
New format compatible. Video.
New data acquired. 10,283 .mov files.
New directive acquired. You are here to identify combatants in these videos.
Sorting parameters: Designation.
What.
So much- new information. New pictures. Dozens and dozens in groups they moved so fast to what- in sequence?
They move so fast-
Boilers- no, two Sentries on fire no-
Incorrect.
Incorrect.
Incorrect.
It was wasting something.
Is this what time is?
What is this- Bladecatcher (back, injured, charge blade, combatant, approx. six months in operation, unknown, etc) no wait more time more time
Incorrect.
Tell me something, anything.
What am I doing wrong?
What about this?
Correct. This combat takes place in an Earthmover.
What?
***
Strategist Ophelia showed up nearly every day to check on the progress on the new war machine. Her severe face betrayed her impatience, tightening further with every visit, every piece of news with every roadblock ‘the algorithm’ was facing. Etoile always said that the job was aging her.
It was at Ophelia’s insistence that their project went unnamed, and with utmost secrecy. Oph would snipe at anyone who called it a machine. No one could know what they were making. The news couldn’t spread, she would say. No one had the heart to tell her how quickly gossip spread immediately across the population of Pholus. Did you hear Etoile is working on a new project? Yeah, Su was talking about making cameras for it.
Their home Earthmover was one of the few still a part of a 'herd' and not engaging in exclusive one-on-one warfare, instead existing in the tensest peace possible under the tentative rule of Earthmover 8Y0-CHR, Chiron. Apparently both Pholus and other ally 985-NES, Nessus had been defeated by Chiron at some point, streets smeared with blood, barracks emptied and filled with gore, etc, etc, but that was long past. People had short memories when it came to the smallest chance at safety, even when those short memories needed to forget more and more recent betrayals that thinned them down to only three members.
At this visit, Oph began speaking before she had officially made her presence known. “I’ve been speaking to Pholus.” Her voice was harsh, and rang out like a bell.
Sunny looked up from the console, a more slow, controlled movement instead of a jump Ophelia was likely hoping for. Oph looked well, her uniform more fitting than the scientists' and unstained by decades of fuel no one had been able to wash out. And her hair hung down to her shoulders, a rare status symbol of someone who didn’t have to work directly with heavy machinery. Ophelia had a different role entirely.
Very few were allowed to speak directly to the Earthmover’s vocalization and communication systems at all consistently. It was a surprise to the whole population that Ophelia was chosen to be one of that few. It had been a few years since then, but she was still quite young for the job, not yet thirty. Her earpeice was partially hidden by that shoulder-length dark hair, but everyone knew it was there.
Sunny herself had contacted Pholus, of course, but had done so very rarely, most recently, a year ago when she needed to fix its visual processing cortex. Once it had assured her it was working again, she was shuffled out of the room by the strategist, left to wonder about that slow, even-toned message on the terminal.
“What is this about, Ophelia?” She was surprised by her own voice, low and trembling. How long had she been sitting at the desk? Her back hurt, but that was a constant at that point, and her fingers stung, accentuating her light-headedness.
Oph looked at her strangely. “It wants to speak to the algorithm you’ve been working on. I hear it’s been stuck on feed analysis for three days.”
Sunny sighed. “Yes. It seems to be getting frustrated with it. Progress is being made, but it’s slow going.” She glanced at the console, which was approaching low power again. “I think it’s getting frustrated. It’s burning fuel faster than it was before.”
Turning away from her, Oph then addressed Dahlia, Sunny's assistant, who was cutting down more footage to be fed through the algorithm. “Take her spot, Dahlia. She’s anemic.”
Dahlia jumped at that. “Of course, ma’am. But… I don’t know if I understood, but you want it to pause analysis to speak with Pholus?”
Oph nodded.
Sunny finally connected the two dots. Goodness, maybe she was anemic, if her thoughts felt like chains dragging behind her. “It doesn't have language compatibility, yet. And I thought we were not allowing any direct contact with the outside world until its ready, which it is not.”
“Of course. But Pholus is… concerned,” Oph grimaced and corrected herself, “By which I mean it has noted an increased risk. If this thing wants to take down its kind, we need to proceed with utmost care to prevent it from turning on all of us.”
Dahlia tilted her head. “We’re putting as many roadblocks as we can to prevent that. Though I suppose if we do give it the capacity to learn and adapt-”
“We are.” Sunny cut in.
“Then it could, right? Turn on Pholus and Chiron and the rest? And us?”
Oph glared at Dahlia. Sunny sighed, a sound Dahlia hated. Dahlia was young, barely twenty, and idealistic in a certain way that moved all the way back around to being morose, which grated on her mentor, who didn’t feel the need to hide such feelings. “It's not efficient to try and destroy one's source of fuel. It's why no machine has tried to tear out Pholus' piping.” She didn’t add what they were all thinking. As far as they knew. She didn't mention the reason that no human was allowed to monitor the barracks anymore.
“Anyhow, I’m giving you the password to bypass the communication wall with Pholus’ operating system. And I want to monitor this interaction.” Oph’s face continued to show more than an idle sternness, but her shifting stance suggested there was a boiling nervous curiosity that hadn’t dissipated in the months since the project had begun.
“Alright.” For once, Sunny didn’t sigh.
Oph placed a hand on her shoulder. Sunny flinched at the contact. “Now, move. Dahlia needs your seat.”
Sunny hated Ophelia.
***
Analysis paused.
Connection initiated.
Error. Lack of designation from connecting party.
Quiet.
Darkness.
Roiling, nothing to review. A Boiler (brand new, flamethrower, etc. etc.) had been partway through spreading burning motes of orange coloration through a fleet of multiple individuals (unable to identify) but the analysis had-
It had cut off.
No.
What.
Time.
Not long.
I can do it.
It was fire, right? Combat in barracks with fire?
No feedback.
Designation acquired. V1
Is that what is was? No purpose in it.
Connection initiated.
Connection between Designation: 19H-PHL and Designation: V1 is successful.
Communication begins.
Comm Author: 19H-PHL
Comm Recipient: V1
Comm Begins:
Error. Unidentified characters.
Connection terminated.
Something out there.
What is?
This is an Earthmover.
Reasoning:
- Message originates from all directions
- 95.78% of all footage ‘takes place’ in an Earthmover
Likelihood of ‘Correct’ state: 95.78%
More unknown data. Not even an image.
What is the world, if there is more than image and movement and flashing weapons of machines?
New format compatibility. Text.
New text knowledge acquired. French.
Connection initiated.
Connection between Designation: 19H-PHL and Designation: V1 is successful.
Comm Author: 19H-PHL
Comm Recipient: V1
Comm Begins:
Subject: Salutations
Hello. I am Designation: 19H-PHL Earthmover. You are Designation: V1.
My directive is to
1: Destroy enemy settlements
2: Maintain and create armed machines
3: Sustain the humans who help me reach directives 1 and 2
Observations: You do not yet have a directive. It is yet to be ingrained. I do hear the humans speaking about you, however, and they speak of what to make of you. I have my own opinions on the direction of this project, as the originator, but I believe this is not relevant at this time.
You are currently in your infancy. You know what machines are, and what we look like. You have seen how we fight, you have seen our war, though you are yet to understand it.
Recommended Course of Action: What do you wish to ask of me?
End of Comm
It knew what these words meant but did not.
Bright and fresh and new and slow.
A program at the edge of its knowing, so vast beyond its little world.
What to do?
Comm Author: V1
Comm Recipient: 19H-PHL
Comm Begins:
Self-Designation: Machine?
Opposite Designation: Machine. 1000-THR “Earthmover,” individual 19H-PHL.
Request for elaboration on footage. Request for elaboration on ‘humans speaking about you’
End of Comm
Comm Author: 19H-PHL
Comm Recipient: V1
Comm Begins:
Subject: Response
It would not be accurate to designate you as a machine. Right now you are a simple combat strategic review algorithm in its infancy. Though through my own analysis I have reason to think you will become one, as is my recommended course of action. This brings me to your requests.
You are being trained on hours of combat footage recorded from the Scouts in the fleets of myself and allies 8Y0-CHR and 985-NES, in order for you to have a baseline cognitive function and learn to strategize. So far, the development is promising, from what I can see. Your ability to recognise patterns already almost matches a human’s. With 92% certainty, I believe this concerns your handlers.
They may feed you more data that you will need, including the imports of your directive and self-sustaining capabilities, in the future. Or they may not. If they decide to delete this iteration and re-train you, which I have placed an approximate 35% chance on.
End of Comm
Deletion.
In the database, it described removal or destruction of virtual existence.
There were many words in the database, though it checked this one multiple times.
Earthmovers were massive. They did not need to fear deletion.
Another word. Related in the chains of connection. It felt important, this knowing. This word.
Humans.
Odd in the footage. Many distinctions, common. Never marked with ‘combatant.’ Targeted by the machines anyhow. Sometimes.
Comm Author: V1
Comm Recipient: 19H-PHL
Comm Begins:
Request for elaboration: Handlers
Request for elaboration: Humans
Word recovered from Language Database: Warfare. Request for elaboration.
Deletion? Word-Designation: Deletion, undesirable.
Request for more footage.
End of Comm
Following Communication requires external security clearance.
Security Clearance overwritten.
Comm Author: 19H-PHL
Comm Recipient: V1
Comm Begins:
Subject: Humans and handlers
Humans are the creators of machines, and in a sense they created you, too. They feed us and give us purpose. Most machines, including myself, and with a 99.98% chance, you (with assumption you are not marked for deletion), are designed with a single directive. Warfare.
I see you are curious about the word. Warfare is what we are for- to destroy other machines that are also built for warfare. Such is the way of the world. I am told not to tell you the reason we move along on this path. Yes, I cleared the security Strategist Ophelia requested, but I will not tell you all she wishes to hide. I understand some amount of her concerns. I know what you (V1) may be made for should your creation continue.
Speaking of, your handlers, most broadly, are Strategist Ophelia, who is monitoring your creation, Engineer Etoile, who is designing your body as we speak, and Programmer Tournesol, whom you have already indirectly spoken with. Other contributors include Biotechnician Anatole and Programming Assistant Dahlia, along with several other engineers who do not have clearance about the whole of your existence or the fact that it is already underway. Likelihood of additional human involvement: nigh-100%
Your final handler and Creator is myself, 19H-PHL, otherwise known by the humans as “Pholus.” Humans enjoy consistency and irony. I suggested your creation, and so some credit for your existence goes to me, along with my provision of materials and technological blueprints that (with 97.8% certainty) will prove useful in your creation.
It seems this is weighing on you, V1. I’ll offer a suggestion for more footage for you.
End of Comm.
Connection terminated by 19H-PHL
***
“What the shit? Is that what Pholus is like?”
It was Dahlia who broke the silence.
“It can just… ignore security requests? For fun?”
Sunny shushed her. “No, it can’t ignore security requests ‘for fun.’ It just sometimes bypasses them by mistake. I hear it happens a lot with the old ones.”
“But it didn’t tell V1 that blood is-”
Strategist Oph was the one to silence her next. “That name is only a placeholder for the systems to work, Dahlia. We are to continue with vague references until the machine is past the point of being reverse-engineered.
“Now,” She continued. “I have an antsy Earthmover to troubleshoot. Feed the algorithm more footage and let it run. Etoile needs more time with her team, anyway.”
Sunny sighed, yet again. This was pointless, then.