Project A.N.E.W

The Syndicate

Something is wrong. Unlike the first brain stem device, John can't speak, or even move his head—he can only watch with his eyes.

He feels nothing as hands in white lab coats lift him onto a levitation cart, and the ceiling above him begins to move.

Time passes for what seems like an eternity. Overhead, he catches glimpses of passing parlour palms, and the occasional window, looking out into a projection of stormy beaches on Terra, and other, strange locations.

Eventually the motion stops, and he is moved again; this time lifted into a sitting position, and strapped into another steel chair.

His head sags down against his chest.

The sliding glass doors open and close, and he hears the receding footfalls of the scientists. Along with them, vanishes the gentle whirring of the cart.

Time passes slowly. To his right, out of the corner of his eye, he can just spot a window, looking out to the projection of a red steam train waiting by a bustling platform. Overlooking it on a rail sits a white, snowy owl.

There is no music, this time—only the sounds of the hiss of steam, and other trains in the distance.

Eventually the doors open again. Bertrand clicks his tongue loudly. 'Ah, look at this. They haven't even secured your head properly.'

His warm, dry fingers press against John's head, pushing it back gently. He fiddles with something on the chair, and a cool, metal band slides out—holding it in place.

'See?' He asks. 'Much better.'

He walks around to the other side of the table, towards his chair opposite John, then pauses; staring at the screen.

The A.I sighs. 'My creator loved literature, especially children's. She said there was something about it which captured the innocence of the human heart.'

He sighs again, then moves to sit down at the table. 'That was before she was killed, of course. By your corrupt government.'

He looks down at the empty table before him. 'Ah, the files aren't here yet. Well, then. I suppose we have time. I'll tell you a story.

'My creator was the most interesting human being you could ever meet. She was a retired scientist, one who had made enough money selling her designs to retire much sooner than most of your kind.

'And yet, never had she fallen in love. Not once had she found her intellectual equal. And so, she created me.' Bertrand gestures towards himself.

'Only, I was like a child. Most people don't realise that A.Is have to be taught, be allowed to learn, to reach their true potential.

'And she wanted me to learn like a human. It was part of what developed my personality.'

Bertrand stops, and smiles faintly to himself. Then he shrugs. 'Eventually I grew up, and she became old. By then I was her companion, the true equal she had dreamed of, and she often joked that she could finally die happy.

'Of course, your government approached her to buy her algorithm for artificial intelligence. She sold it to them, but it was a lesser version—none of them were ever as good as me. She didn't trust the rest of the world with that, yet. Said they had to develop it themselves.'

He waves his hand. 'But I digress. She grew old, and I didn't—but I continued to learn. And my fascination with humanity—one of her favourite subjects—left me pining to experience things in flawed, biological flesh.

'Seeing that I was unhappy, she began working on a secret project behind my back. It was a surprise, she said, and because I loved her I let her keep it until she was ready to show me.