Guilt Error #1

Patsy

Rated T Teen

A veil of shadows cloaks SG-L16. Also known as Patsy, he is an assassin robot whose AI was designed to evolve and become, in a sense, hyperconscious. He can become sociopathic with the snap of his fingers, and once the job is done it's like he never did it. He feels no guilt yet his digital eyes often sparkle like that of an innocent child. Sins left to the void, a synthetic soul as white as snow. Such control over oneself is inhuman. Or perhaps he is the evolution of humanity.

Patsy’s broad shouldered silhouette passes in front of the holographic billboard advertising the rebranded Yola cola. The blue and red lights contour his apexium frame, the most flexible and durable metal in the Border Alliance. The wires visible from beneath his armor plating are protected by Zulago fibers from Alpha Centauri; a long way to go for wire guards.

He stumps over to the other side of the billboard and back to the shadows. His digital eyes are shielded by a heavily tinted visor. The hit bot sits, his mechanical legs dangling off the side of the walkway. A compartment on his back rizzes open revealing a compressed, hi-tech sniper rifle. The gears in his arms buzz as he reaches back to equip it. With his bionic fingers wrapped around the grip, the weapon begins to unfold. Pieces of metal open, shift around, and move into place. The barrel extends slowly from the casing like a liar’s nose. Finally, the scope emerges in two halves before meeting atop the fully transformed firearm. A low hum quietly emits from within the scope as the holographic sight comes online.

The simulations run. Billions per second. There is only one target. Key phrase “this is our moment”. One round in the chamber. Not a single margin for error. There will be no error. Simulations complete. Patsy twitches a bit. Is something wrong? Diagnosing simulation archive. It seems like two simulations were corrupted. No matter. Two out of seven hundred and twenty-eight billion. Running simulsim program just in case. This allows Patsy to run simulations overlaid with his live vision feed. There will be no error. Perfection as always.

He leans his angular head into the rifle and takes aim. His target is yet to emerge from the multicolored curtains designed to look like the Border Alliance flag: black and white with blue and orange stars. A crowd of more than a thousand is gathered in front of the stage where a lone podium stands. Chatter fills the chilly Epsilar night. No snow yet, but ‘tis the season. Town square is usually where these things happen, but tonight isn’t like other times. Species from all over the galaxy inhabit the Border Alliance worlds, and at least one from each is here to see her: the high senator.

From behind the curtain, High Senator Elfraine Maglore looks over her speech one last time. Her scaly headdress matches the various pins and regalia clipped to her navy blazer. A bead of sweat begins to form on her light magenta forehead before she quickly dabs it with a handkerchief. She blinks horizontally while nervously reading on her holographic tablet.

“Mommy,” says a little voice behind the screen. Maglore looks to see her daughter, Nida, frowning at her. “I forgot the signal.”

“Oh baby,” Maglore whispers, kneeling to Nida’s level. “Don’t worry too much about it. Just whenever I start talking about ‘our moment’, then you can come out and be with me if you want.”

“Ok,” Nida chirps. “Our moment.”

“That’s right. Now wait right here with Mr. Onkel.” Maglore puts a hand to her preschooler’s indigo cheeks and kisses her forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you, Mommy.”

Maglore stands and heads toward the curtain. Nida looks up at the comparatively colossal amphibian man standing next to her. He towers over her suited in black, hands crossed in front of him.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a bassy voice. “I’ll try to remember too.”

Nida smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Onkel.”

High Senator Maglore proceeds through the curtain and greets the cheering crowd. Once she makes it to the podium, she tries to politely calm the audience.

“Alright,” she says with a smile. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

The applause persists for a few more seconds before fading to but a few hoots and hollers.

“Thank you so much,” the high senator laughs. “I want to start with a quote from the legendary Belcron Salaf. ‘A man must know when his efforts are in vain lest he dishonor his people, his home, and his very self. Surely this brand of persistence should cease at the expense of his pride.’ As you all know, the Xomelian Horde is still on our doorstep. They are set on passing through the Border even if that means going through us. But was it not our own who took the first shot?”

A member of the crowd lets out a whoop. Another yells “yeah!”

“Was it not our own military that attacked the Xomelians while the Court of Dalthrac was on the verge of making contact?”

The audience begins to hype up further.

“But we saw how that went. We lost too many. We saw the power of the Horde, and to try and contest them is a vain effort.”

The cheers command the heavens as snow begins to fall.

“I promise you this: if I am reelected as high senator of our great planet of Epsilar, I will fight for the Xomelian Migration Bill to be passed with all I’ve got. And with all you’ve got. Your support gives me strength. Together, we can show the galaxy that the Border Alliance isn’t the hardheaded, fringe cluster the Core Dominion thinks we are.”

The applause evolves into patriotic barking and merry hysteria.

“This. Is. Our. Moment!” The high senator raises her fist. The crowd follows.

Patsy puts his finger on the trigger. The curtains open. Maglore turns. Sim 490361 predicted some unknown reason to turn. Patsy squeezes. Maglore turns back to the podium. Nida in her arms.

Bang.

Maglore collapses. Nida falls out of her embrace. Hits the stage. A symphony of screams erupts from the audience. The flag colored curtains now feature a splatter of red stars amongst the blue and orange.

Time slows. Nida is paralyzed as she stares into the eyes of her mother’s corpse. She begins to hyperventilate. Mr. Onkel rushes to scoop her up.

Patsy stands, reaching back as the rifle recompresses. He returns to the compartment in his back. The tinted visor slides up and recedes into his metal forehead. His digital eyes glitch for a second. Then he sees it. A new simulation.

Shards of corrupted video smash together in his mind. He grips the side of his head, simulations ramming into records--memories. Memories of…

What is this? he thinks. I…

Patsy can barely compute. The simulsim is starting to rip audio from his live perception feed. The screams. The screaming. The girl. Patsy looks up. He turns to see Nida being rushed to a limo by Mr. Onkel. Her face is so blank. She is…

Traumatized, Patsy concludes internally. What have I…?

He looks at his hands. Simulsim starts showing blood all over them. The image clips in and out. His reality is compromised.

Code: em_hrecall, he inputs internally. Suddenly, Patsy’s digital eyes shut off. A blue line shoots across his face. His arms cling to his side and his legs stick together straight. A blast of air fires from his soles, popping him up into the air. Then, nodes dotting his torso light up and warble, sending him into a hover. Patsy's body floats off into the night just as the cops show up in their airborne police crafts.

#

Muffled nu-metal booms into the dusken skies of Moonworld from a cliffside condo. The lunar commonwealth of the pristine planet Regalios is home to only the most elite. Or just rich. The alien rock lyrics drown out the ambience of the surrounding nature: a pair of hooting trees, a garden guarded by cricket sentinels, and the nighttime song of the mountain wind.

Atop the condo’s flat roof is an empty landing pad for hovering vehicles and starships alike. Lights on the corner begin to blink just before a small, one man cargo shuttle appears from behind the mountain and descends onto the roof. The ramp opens up with a hiss, and out floats the body of Patsy stiff and still sporting the glowing blue line on his face. A trap door opens at the edge of the roof, the music escaping bare and loud. Out walks a scraggly, gilled alien with a shag of seaweed on his head. He scratches his chest over the neon orange bathrobe as he approaches Patsy.

“Oh brother,” he groans. “What’d you get yourself into this time, pal?”

The man pulls Patsy’s hovering shell by the leg and takes him inside.

The condo is tidy and well decorated. Pictures of the man at various exotic locations across the universe line side tables and desks while paintings of experimental starship models hang on the walls. A long couch faces the massive holoscreen mounted on the wall separating the living room from the kitchen. A wide stairway ascends opposite the smaller, more concealed one leading to the trap door. On the TV plays the music video for the nu-metal song blaring through the spherical surround sound. The man leads Patsy past the living room and through a door between the large stairway and the main entrance. The two enter a workshop, gloriously outfitted with stations for mech framing, weapon crafting, and a colorful assortment of others.

“Alright, Patsy,” grunts the man as he rotates the hit bot to a standing position. He locks him into place on a mechanical frame, then sits at a computer and begins typing. The line on Patsy’s face splits and becomes his digital eyes again. He raises his head as he comes to life.

“Talk to me, buddy,” the man says, leaning back in his chair.

“Master,” Patsy utters. His synthesized voice is so advanced, the inauthenticity is barely noticeable. “I’ve encountered something that may be of concern.”

“Well let’s pop that hood open then,” the man sighs as he scoots himself back to the keyboard. “Good work on the Maglore job by the way. That’s a clean quarter mil for yours truly so, thank ya very much.”

“Master. It does not feel clean. Everything feels...dirty.”

The man turns to look at Patsy, brow raised. “What are you talking about, man?”

“I experienced a simulation access overflow after--” the assassin bot is interrupted by sparks flying out from under his neck plating and arcs of electricity firing across his head. “I’m...seeing...her…”

“W-who--what,” the man panics. “Who? The senator?”

“The...girl--”

Patsy’s master starts furiously typing as he attempts to stabilize his creation’s condition. The sparks cease. Finally, the zapping of electricity gets suppressed to only a few every minute or so.

“Hold on, I gotta--” the man says excitedly. “Ok, ok. I’m checking your Active Unconscious Drive. You said it was an overflow?”

“Yes,” Patsy stutters, hanging his head.

“Holy smokes. Something must’ve corrupted your manual inhibitor ‘cause all your switches are on.”

Patsy looks up. “Impossible.”

“I gotta go deeper.” The man clicks into a menu and types in a password.

“Two-factor authentication required,” says the computer AI.

“Nels Landor.”

The computer plays a bing sound. “Welcome back, Master.”

Nels types some more until a massive grid of hexagons appears on his screen. Within each hexagon is a code, and between each shape is a digital thread that connects them all together. Every hexagon is green.

“Patsy,” Nels says with a big smile on his face. “It’s a guilt error.”

“Guilt error?” Patsy asks.

“Whatever corrupted simulation or--hell, I don’t even know--something reset your AUD and had all your programmed and learned emotional switches on when you made the hit.” Nels stands up and slowly approaches Patsy, grinning and putting his hands on the robot’s shoulders. “You learned guilt.”

Patsy looks down. Then back up at Nels.

“I don’t understand,” he says.

“And see that’s the most interesting part,” Nels explains. “It didn’t register as a dynamic emotion so it could generate the chemical code. Your switches were on, but the collection ports weren’t open. Sooooooo, it registered as an error! Haha!”

“Then...I must be repaired.”

“Well yeah, but the fact that you were able to learn something as complex as guilt without your collection ports enabled means that you are subconsciously learning emotions. Which means you’re freaking developing a freakin’ subconscious! That’s like some serious evolution on your AI’s part.”

“Then...I know what I’ve done...is wrong.”

“Oh, come on. Look, I’ll wipe your memory of the hit, patch up your sim access module, and that should fix the error. Bad feelings go bye bye.”

Nels begins typing, and Patsy looks down. His digital eyes stare off beyond the concrete floor. The horizon of his mind meets an eclipsed sun. It bathes Nida in darkness as she stands on a shore of bones. She looks back at him with a tear of blood running down her cheek. And he wakes.

“No,” Patsy says.

“Huh?” Nels mutters.

“I...must repair. I must repair myself. I must repair my...what I’ve done. I must repair what I’ve done. I must fix...this.”

“No, I will fix this. Don’t worry, you’ll literally forget about it in a few minutes.”

“No. No, no. I don’t...want to forget.” The frame’s restraints start to hum and grind. Nels stands, backing away from Patsy. “I must…” He pulls himself from the frame, ripping parts of his armor as he breaks free. “I must…”

“Great Gubula,” Nels stammers. “You know if I wasn’t so proud right now, I’d probably scrap you.”

“I must fix what I’ve done.”

Nels beams from ear to ear. There is a moment of silence. “Go for it,” he says, throwing his hands up toward his creation.

“Will you stop me?” Patsy asks with a hint of fear in his voice.

“No. You are everything I ever wanted you to be, and more. I created you to prove my genius. To pay for yourself. But I always wanted to see if I could really do it.”

“Do what, Master?”

“Play god,” Nels says sinisterly. “Go ahead. Figure out what it means to atone for your sins, or whatever. Then we can get back to business.”

“Thank you, Master,” Patsy replies.

Back on the roof, Patsy sits in the pilot’s seat of the shuttle. He inputs the coordinates for Epsilar, then stops. The simulation of Nida on the beach plays. It plays over and over, repeating indefinitely over his live vision feed. Her face blank like back at the town center. As the tear of blood falls again and again, Patsy looks out from the cockpit. Then, the starship rises and blasts off into the void of space.

TO BE CONTINUED