Odin's Eye

ODIN'S EYE

By Maria Haskins

Copyright 2015 Maria Haskins

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Mimir’s Well

Live and Virtually Returning

The Child

The Gates of Balawat

On Our Way

The Man In The Grey Coveralls

Lost And Found

Bethel

Life Line

Empty

The Settlers

Johnny B. Goode

Cover by Caligraphics.

Cover photo: Helix nebula. Photo credit: NASA, ESA, C.R. O'Dell (Vanderbilt University), M. Meixner and P. McCullough (STScI)

To drink from the Well of Wisdom [also known as Mimir’s Well - author’s note], Odin had to sacrifice his eye --- symbolizing his willingness to gain the knowledge of the past, present and future. As he drank, he saw all the sorrows and troubles that would fall upon men and the gods.

From Wikipedia.

MIMIR’S WELL

He stopped right next to the light-fountain in the middle of the arrival hall, with his neatly polished shoes resting on top of the Luna-logo which was inlaid in the artificial marble floor: a thin, silver crescent on a dark blue background. Behind him, the whir of the luggage-coaster subsided as it caught up to him - its bright red sensor-eye flashing patiently, waiting for his next move.

Home, he thought, probing his interior for an emotional response to the word, but it did not conjure up any particular reaction this time either.

Although local time made it very early morning, or very late night, the arrival hall was full of people. Luna was never at rest: if it was day or night here depended on what shift you worked, and what room you were in. There was intense activity at all hours at the loading docks, in the laboratories and research facilities, and in every corridor, elevator and conference room where groups of administrators, bureaucrats, engineers, labourers, business-people, students, and various techs were constantly on the move and at work. Luna was a transition point where everybody always seemed to be on their way somewhere else, just like he was.

Looking up through the domed, transparent ceiling he could make out several points of light moving purposefully through the darkness, and instinctively he identified them: docking stations for the freighters, research pods, satellites, and the construction hubs where unfinished ships clung to their mother stations, still attached by metallic umbilical cords.

The bracelet on his left wrist buzzed: a quiet but urgent sound. He pulled up the sleeve of his jacket and grabbed hold of the dull, tightly encircling metal, concealing it almost completely with his hand - leaving just enough space between his thumb and index finger to read the message on the micro-screen. The flashing encryption dots reminded him that he had only fifteen minutes and twenty seconds before his next appointment.

Then it will start all over again, he thought as he pulled down the sleeve to cover his wrist.

He opened and closed his left hand a few times, testing it, but the muscle cramp that had been bothering him since yesterday had not gone away. Now and again over the last few years he had been afflicted by spasms in his hands during and after deactivations. The physios claimed it was nothing serious, but he sometimes wondered if they were just afraid of losing a valuable employee, and would allow him to keep going until he burned out, rather than tell him what was wrong.

I should go, he thought but still he did not move.

A memory.

Two years ago to the day he had been standing right here, in this very spot. He had just arrived on Luna to take up his new position with The Association, and he had been standing here with his newly acquired work-ID tucked into his pocket, his dual citizenship approved, and had been looking up at the same sky through the same ceiling.

That was the memory. Not much to it. He couldn’t even understand why he had suddenly recalled it so vividly. It certainly didn’t seem to mean anything. He picked up his bag and the now empty luggage-coaster slid away across the floor to reclaim its spot next to the Terra-shuttle’s transpo-ramps.

On his way out he passed several wall-screens showing the latest news, but he didn’t stop to watch as many others did, he didn’t even turn his head as he passed. He had already seen it: the missile launch, the mushroom cloud, the casualties. Been there. Done that.

A protest was under way in the public area just outside the AI-Center, the hub where all of The Association’s activities pertaining to artificial intelligence in the solar system were coordinated. The demonstrators were slightly more numerous than usual, maybe two hundred all counted. They were banging on the corridor’s protective, one-way-glass, holding up electronic placards where the slogans rolled by, brightly lit and multi-colored: Head office of the AI-killers! Equal rights for all intelligence! Stop the annihilation of AIs! Life and Liberty for AIs!

He kept walking.

Murderers.

He couldn’t hear them through the glass, but he could see them chanting the word over and over again, and even though he knew that they couldn’t see him from their side, it was as if they were looking right at him, their faces distorted by anger.

The sector chief did not say a word as he entered her office. In fact, she did not even look up from her screen, but one of the chairs at her large desk had been pulled out so he sat down. She was smoking as usual, puffing incessantly on the white stick. Its blue glow-tip glimmered as she inhaled, and when she exhaled, thin wisps of smoke snaked their way up to the ceiling before being neutralized by the air purifying system.

According to the available stats, there were more smokers on Luna than anywhere else in the solar system. Smoking had become a status symbol here, something you did to demonstrate that you had enough credits, or influence, to access the latest cancer-preventing bio-chips. As in most of the colonies, a number of medical implants were standard for all residents, mainly those offering protection against communicable diseases and various viral- and bacterial infections; but the anti-cancer implants were still rather exclusive. The sector chief was top-echelon so she had both the credits and the influence required. She also, apparently, had enough clout within The Association to be allowed to smoke during work hours.

While he waited for her to acknowledge his presence, he closed his eyes and listened to the familiar sounds of the AI-Center. He could make out the buzz of voices rising and falling outside the chief’s office, the hiss of the fans, the muted drone of the light ramps, and the barely audible hum of the computers. But deeper than that, beyond all of these readily identifiable sounds, was the sound of the Net. If he focused, he was usually able to filter out all other sounds and just hear that one, unique tone: deep, almost inaudible, yet utterly familiar, and so low-pitched that it was more like a quiver inside him than a sound, seemingly oscillating in time with his own thoughts.

The deactivation was a success then? she asked abruptly and the soothing acoustic tendril he had just managed to grasp hold of slipped away.

He nodded. With the touch of a fingertip she made the latest satellite images of Earth’s northern hemisphere appear on the wall. Areas with increased radioactivity were shown in yellow, and the projected wind patterns for the next few days were taken into account to show how the contaminated material would spread. The yellow area expanded in a wide, irregular band just south of the polar region.

Off, she ordered and the picture disappeared, instantly replaced by a landscape as seen through a high window. It was a view that did not belong on Luna or any part of Earth that he was familiar with: turquoise water, bleached sunlight, white buildings clinging to steep cliffs, shadows of birds against a blue sky.

Maybe a memory, he thought. Maybe a home. But long ago and somewhere else.

It was unfortunate about the missiles, of course, she continued. There were three of them?

Three hot ones. The AI managed to launch seven but only three were functional.

And the casualty numbers seem to be staying below the projected five thousand. Which is pretty much what we expected. Further?

The damage on the ground was mainly limited to some of the already condemned zones, but they had to evacuate parts of the boundary areas too.

Those old garbage dumps should have been dismantled long ago, she said with a small, exasperated sigh. The old military installations have always been risky to engage, but it’s outrageous that any of them are still around. How many of you were required to take it down?

Four. The synchronization worked perfectly. Only minimal damage to one member of our group.

Impressive. I don’t think anyone has had to use that many deactivators anywhere since the AI-crisis on the Jovian satellites five years ago.

Correct.

And you would know, wouldn’t you? Since you were there. Working for our competition in the Outer System at the time, but still. Classic case, that. Your performance there was one of the reasons we hired you, you know.

She flashed a quick smile, and not knowing what to say he just nodded. Smile already gone, she touched a couple of keys. Net-info and statistics scrolled by rapidly on the screen in front of him, its black, shiny surface partly recessed in the thick wood of the desk. Real wood: varnished and lacquered and polished. It was the one feature of her otherwise rather sparsely decorated office that was clearly ostentatious. The material was prohibitively expensive and extremely hard to acquire off-Earth, and like the scenery on the wall, it seemed like an echo from somewhere else and long ago. He wondered why she had spent the extra credits on it, when the high-end synthetic wood looked almost identical.

Do you recognize this? she asked and his eyes slipped off the desk’s glossy, dark brown surface, focusing on the screen again.

Yes. The Guardian. AKA Mimir. Located in the old Moon museum.

Mimir, also known as the Guardian, she nodded, eyes narrowing as she crushed the last of her cigarette into a small ashtray. As you can tell, even educated people like you and I can sink so low as to actually use the names given to this abnormality by the tech-radicals. It’s your next mission. Not surprising, I presume? After all, you have been updated regularly on the planning for this op since you came on board. You’re already fully briefed on all the details I take it?

He watched as the thin, bright disintegrator-beam obliterated the remains of tobacco and paper, returning the ashtray to its previous pristine condition.

I am fully apprised of the situation.

Excellent. Solo gig. With solid backup from here of course. You agree with that setup?

I agree.

She leaned back, making the chair creak.

Our old friend the Guardian, also known as Mimir. The tech-rads must have dug deep into the myth-files to dredge up that name. A special case. An antique. One of the first AIs. We’ve not attempted a deactivation previously, even though this thing has managed to infiltrate almost one hundred percent of the systems on Luna, and even though it has spread to some of the observatories in the outer system, and lately even to a couple of solar wind reactors. The Association has kept it under surveillance and has monitored its growth closely, but without intervening. All to avoid social unrest and to maintain Luna’s rep as one of the most tech-liberal places in the system. As you are certainly aware, the tech-radicals and AI-libbers have always been strong both in orbit and on Luna. And as long as this permissive approach has been good for research funding and investment flow, we have not interfered, but the recent developments down there have changed all that.

Down there, he interjected. I was not aware that anybody used that derogatory term for Earth anymore.

She flashed a crooked grin with a new cigarette in the corner of her mouth.

"Those of us who have never set foot down there allow ourselves certain liberties, she said and went on. With the unrest and sheer panic caused by the more spectacular AI-disasters in recent years, we can no longer allow the Guardian to exist. Call it accumulated antipathy if you will. Also, we have experienced an increasing number of disturbances in Luna’s reactors and life-support systems lately. It could be unrelated, but it’s probably a sign that Mimir is getting restless or just too old for its, and our, own good. When rumors of widespread AI-contamination of the core systems began circulating on Mars a decade ago there were riots. AI-libbers and tech-rads versus everyone else. Investors were scared off for years. Luna can’t afford that."

She put the only partially finished cigarette into the ashtray, absentmindedly pulling a new one from the black metal container on the desk.

I guess you noticed the demonstrators when you arrived, she continued. They blame this latest missile launch on us, as usual. They say that we, meaning The Association in general and more specifically you, the deactivators, went in without first attempting to negotiate with the AI, and that the AI therefore had a right to defend itself. Legitimate self-defence they call it. Four thousand plus human beings dead and they just spout the usual rhetoric about equal rights for all intelligence, and that every AI is a spontaneous manifestation of the Net’s inherent intelligence and will to live. Always the same old crap.

She got out of the chair and turned to face the wall-screen, staring at the image as if she was looking out a real window.

Best tech-idea in a century they called it when the installations began. The Net. All neuro-tech links everywhere, all communication systems, all sensors, all memory storage, everything interconnected, joined, fused, integrated, united. That was the buzzword: united. Has a positive ring, doesn’t it? Shows what they knew.

He listened patiently, accustomed by now to her long, meandering speeches that did not always seem relevant to the tasks at hand.

And all of this fabulous unity was to be masterfully organized and supervised and constantly upgraded by a slew of artificial intelligences. AIs that not only had been programmed with the ability to learn and be creative, but had also been equipped with nano-tech functions, reducing the need for repairs and upgrades, while making the system capable of creating most of its own hardware: comm-links, memory, power grid connections. And of course we were already blessed with the neural interface devices that allow every one of us to connect our cortex directly to this immense, united network. Ever since then, we’ve done nothing but try to clean up the mess: AI’s spawning other AIs, AIs assuming functions they were not supposed to have, contaminating or sabotaging or hijacking systems everywhere from Mercury to Neptune. But is it really that strange that those fanatics out there think that AIs are alive and sentient? Most of them spend more time hooked into the Net, hanging out with AIs, legal and otherwise, than they do with each other. Wouldn’t life be less lonely for them, if the AIs really were more than just hardware and programming?

Less lonely. Her choice of words seemed odd, but he assumed that the question was rhetorical so he did not ask for clarification or attempt to give an answer. He just sat there, opening and closing his hand underneath the desk. The cramp was easing somewhat and he had almost regained enough control to straighten his fingers.

Finally she sat down again, igniting the cigarette by touching a thin crystal lighter to the glow-tip and greedily sucking in the smoke. When she exhaled it was like a heavy sigh.

"For them it’s never enough. Never. It’s not enough that the new AI-regulations allow and even encourage the use of controlled AIs. It’s not enough that The Association actually doesn’t just deactivate unauthorized AIs, but that we’re also one of the largest users of approved AIs in the system. AI-slavery they call it. Total anarchy and fragmentation of the Net is apparently the only thing that will satisfy them. And meanwhile we have thousands of AIs running amok, fragmenting the Net and causing minor inconveniences like missile attacks and collapsed biospheres. Like I said. I can understand them. Better than I should perhaps.