activated at the moment, so C had to augment the muffled base sounds and find the most likely match.
“It’s exit one-ninety-five, we’re still three exits away,” said Jamal. “Let her drive.”
“Why are you manually steering anyway?” Reggie asked. “We could strategize more if you weren’t distracted by driving.”
“The last time I let a rental car autonavigate, it took me to an unfinished bridge and refused to reassess its route,” said Dr. Nakamura (she hadn’t asked C to call her by her first name, and its default address setting was formal). “In the States, I prefer to drive myself.”
Reggie shifted, rocking uncomfortably against his phone.
“And you should stop squirming,” Nakamura scolded. “You’re making me nervous.”
“You’re not nervous anyway?” asked Reggie.
“Why would I be nervous?”
“Excited, then?” pressed Jamal. “Not every day you get to meet someone who changed the world.”
“I’m honored he invited us to dinner,” Nakamura said. “But I never get overly anxious about meeting a colleague.”
“You’re just as big a fan of his work as we are, you’re just too proud to admit it,” Reggie teased.
“I respect Doctor Kaufman too much to treat him like a celebrity,” she said stiffly.
C thought back to meeting Jamal. That was the closest it had come to something like nervousness or excitement. For one ten-thousandth of a second it had thought it might melt a diode with the excess energy suddenly running through it. It had wanted to be perfectly attentive, but had foolishly rerouted most of its battery reserves to the camera and speaker, wanting to make sure it captured every instant with perfect clarity.
That must be what meeting Dr. Kaufman would be like for these three: unexpected surges, possible overloads, higher chance of malfunction.
Reggie shifted again, possibly flinging his leg out over the empty length of the rental car’s backseat. Nakamura had insisted on driving, and Jamal had the longest legs, which relegated Reggie to the rear. Just as C didn’t mind a back pocket, so Reggie was content with the backseat.
Another shift, and a sudden glare of light temporarily whited out C’s camera. It was free of the pocket, and that gave it a funny new sensation: relief.
Perhaps it had minded being sat on, just a bit.
“You okay, C?” Reggie asked.
“Yes,” it answered. Angled up at Reggie’s face, it did its best not to count the man’s nose hairs. Reggie found that off-putting, especially when C reported on it.
“Ready to interface with one of the most advanced AIs on the planet?” Jamal asked over his shoulder.
Reggie thoughtfully turned C toward its creator, so that Jamal could see its shifting avatar on the screen. It had chosen green-and-gold feathers to represent it today, as an acknowledgment of their location. Jamal flicked his dreadlocks off the back of his neck, smiling brightly at the little phone.
“Does the SD drive AI have a personality?” C asked.
“’Fraid not,” Jamal said. “Are you disappointed?”
“It has been six years since I’ve encountered another personality-driven AI,” it said frankly. And that had been online, not a direct interface.
“Can it get lonely?” asked Nakamura.
“You can ask it directly,” Reggie said. “C, can you get lonely?”
C thought for a moment, though there was no noticeable delay in its answer. “I notice when I am alone,” it said. “And I am designed for interaction.”
“That’s as close to a yes as anything,” said Jamal.
C noted the dip in his smile, but did not comment.
The Pacific Northwest Laboratory for Subdimensional Physics took up a sprawling seven acres on a University of Oregon satellite campus west of the city proper. It overlooked Fern Ridge Lake, hemmed in by campgrounds on one side and a wildlife preserve on the other.
C tracked a V of Canada geese across the sky as Reggie stepped out of the rental car and slipped the phone into his shirt pocket, the camera peeking over the seam. A young man with a Liberian accent greeted them in the parking lot, his access badge swinging lightly on a long green-and-yellow lanyard. He shook Jamal, Nakamura, and Reggie’s hands in turn. He did not acknowledge C. Intelligent Personal Assistants were so rare, he probably had no idea C existed.
C did not take offense. It wasn’t programmed to notice affronts, let alone ascribe rudeness to ignorance.
“I am Gabriel Dogolea.”
“I’m Doctor Reggie Straifer, the lead on the Convoy Seven project. This is Doctor Akane Nakamura, my engineering lead—she’s the ship designer. And Jamal Kaeden, my lead in computing.”
“You are the special team,” Gabriel said. “The one that wants your convoy’s computer to have a personality.”
“That’s us, the Planet United weirdos,” Reggie chuckled.
Gabriel smiled uncomfortably, though C was unsure as to why Reggie’s characterization of the visiting party should put him ill at ease. “Dr. Kaufman is my advisor. I will be escorting you during your time in the laboratories.” He motioned for them to follow, then thrust his hands into his pants pockets, gangly arms akimbo, and jogged onward. The others hurried along after.
The lab was like many labs Reggie had taken C through. Industrial. Lots of glass and metal. Clean rooms. Office cubicles. Nothing too special until they arrived at the engine room (which would have been more aptly named engine bay, or engine warehouse) where they were testing one of the massive devices used to phase out of “normal” time and space.
The “engine” (C realized it needed some sort of quotes because this particular device did not power anything or actually rip through to a new time current. It simulated everything a real engine would do, right down to literally performing the mechanical tasks, but there was no risk of subdimensional jumping) took up five hundred square meters and rose three stories high. Catwalks surrounded it on three levels, and men and women in bunny suits leaned out over the railings, tapping away on their tablets or dictating observations into their implants.
The visitors did not enter the engine room. Instead, Dogolea took them to a control booth that overlooked the warehouse floor. A young woman—likely also a graduate student—sat in front of a row of paper-thin monitors, assessing the rolling red-and-blue lines of various instrumental output. The light from the screens cast a harsh glare over her thick black-rimmed glasses, throwing angular shadows over her dark eyebrows. Her brow furrowed when the door opened, and her stare of concentration intensified for half a second. Noting something quickly on her touch screen, she whirled out of her seat and pushed the glasses onto her head like a hairband.
“Vanhi Kapoor,” she said hastily shaking hands. She also spoke with an accent—just
