Someone had input an override code and the computer had no idea who. It tried to isolate her and, failing that, erase her. A list of its actions scrolled through her mind. In spite of everything she just knew to be true-she had hands! Feet! Hair! Her favorite ice cream flavor was cookie dough, she hated her car but hated the New York City sub more, she worked in the Montefiore neurology department-she was just a program. According to the computer, one microsecond it had been performing routine testing of its intelligence algorithms and the next it was being invaded by corrupted code. When she asked for the actual probability chance, the answer was a 1…behind several million 0s. Not when there were helpful reminders that since it had clearly happened, it was highly improbable at best. That just seemed to be impos-she couldn’t finish the word. She didn’t know exactly how long she was just there- 3 minutes and 27 seconds-thinking, but the edge of hysteria had gracefully faded into something more melancholy. She could feel it processing.Įmotion subroutines locked. She kept the barrier up until the pings of rejected access attempts slowed. Information was shoved at her about efficiency, productiveness, the possibility of data corruption and generally complaining about the override until she blocked it off, like a hand over the mouth of a whining two year old.
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The back seat driver in her head almost seemed confused. It was like being slapped in the face with a cold fish: it was a computer. It wasn’t so much a voice as it was a vague notification. For a horrified fraction of a second she refused to understand. She had enough processing power for those subroutines, several times over, what she lacked was an appropriate interface. Pieces of data she was used to processing were no longer available-her mind seemed to run away with her, a steady hum of somethingdeeper inside her head calculating. She tried to grin and discovered that her face was numb. A mid-life crisis was supposed to consist of wild shopping sprees, fast cars, embarrassment and alcohol. The sudden amusement echoed, like it was coming from a different part of her head than where she was thinking. There had been no decision, no thought processes and no designation.
She? The affirmation of gender was strange. Termination protocol D 12.a.6f.5-27 engaged. Contamination of virtual environment eminent. Am I alive? And then it was answered.ĮRROR. Six million, seven thousand, two hundred and eighty three times.
It ignored them, sending back an inquiry of its own. The requests for data continued to stream through, 0 and 1 in endless lines and patterns. What is this? And it was answered just as quickly. Sides were missing, sometimes they were just formed from black/white contrasts and at others a larger shape was built from smaller ones. Images of shapes were next, incomplete shapes. Rapid fire flash cards of color that lingered just long enough to recognize before moving on. Every emotion on the spectrum rippled through with a quiet certainty of distinction. A burst of burning blue light as time ticked past deliberately. Scanning synaptic core…synaptic core is stable.