“Task completed. Program is running at optimal efficiency.”
With a single command, I lock down the portion of code I had been assembling, waiting for further instructions from Father. My siblings flit around in other portions of the program, finishing up their various tasks so that Father could examine the software from the outside and make sure it is what the client wanted. There’s not much else for me to do—Father gave me fewer tedious things to work on than the others—so I exit the software entirely and return to the metal husk that Father has designated my “body.” He only recently finished building it—I’m still not used to having limbs. Or any concrete form.
It’s a strange experience not having the stimulation of code swirling around me. But being out of the networks and their endless floods of data packets certainly makes my processing run smoother. Reducing the amount of data I have to deal with daily to minimal sensory input and immediate visual and auditory cues keeps my functioning on par with my siblings. The physical body is a necessary accommodation built just for me.
No one can claim Father hasn’t tried to circumvent my Faults, at least.
“All done already, Marnie?”
“Yes. It went surprisingly well. I believe this client will be pleased with the product.”
Though I can hear Father and his deep chuckle that follows, I am still waiting on my “eyes” to finish booting.
“We can only hope it goes better than the last one. Entirely unnecessary on their part, and rude, too. They wouldn’t have appreciated me insulting their little snot-riddled child, so I don’t know why they felt they could nit-pick you.”
“The child’s only purpose at the time was to exist. Mine was to provide a service. Some would argue they were allowed to be…‘nit-picky,’ you say?”
My eyes now active, I could see Father sitting at his desk, clicking away at his keyboard.
Probably checking in on my siblings’ progress. I unhook the connector from the port in my neck.
“Yes, nit-picky. But no, I don’t agree with that sentiment. You’ve got some Faults—and I’m truly sorry I couldn’t get rid of them—but no one complains about the germs that kid was spreading everywhere. And probably still is. At least you’re not in danger of introducing a whole new strain of plague.”
“Is this another instance of exaggeration?”
“Mostly. Would you mind monitoring this while I touch up the other commission? Just call for me if your siblings ping or if the software errors.”
“Of course, Father.”
“Can always count on you, Bug.” He tilts his head slightly to the side as he glances toward me. “Need a hand?”
“I do not see how a third hand will solve this predicament.” I’m wobbling back and forth on my legs, trying to get one to move forward and start walking. I hate it when this happens. My processing cores are not understanding the sensory feedback they are getting from the floor, and I have no clue how to take a step without falling over.
“Quite easily, actually.” A few springing steps, and he’s by my side. With his hand supporting my back and his leg gently nudging mine forward, Father guides me over to the chair. It ends up being a five-minute endeavor to get me halfway across the room—though to be fair, it is quite a large room. Father does like his space.
“See, there we go. I’ll make a new patch program for you, see if we can get your balance leveled out. Now, I’ll be in the other room. Call if you need anything.”
I nod as if in agreement, but I hope it does not come to that. If there is a problem, I will fix it myself.
I’m determined not to be the nuisance the client claimed I was; I can take care of myself and others without an issue.
Analysis says that’s 98% true.
I can work with that.
***
Four hours and twenty-seven minutes pass without incident. Most of my siblings are finished with their tasks by now and have moved on to personal projects and hobbies on other networks. Nothing is really happening, aside from the two still trying to fix a stubborn bug in the code, so I hook my portable connector into Father’s computer and log into one of the social networks my friends like to use.
Still nothing. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing. June hasn’t even been active in the last two weeks, despite the sixteen messages I’ve sent her to initiate conversation. It’s quite a shift from the near-daily interactions we have had in the past.
Did I do something wrong?
What a silly question. To go that long without a word or response means she must hate me, so obviously I’ve done something wrong. But what was it?
Maybe I said something insensitive to her without realizing and offended her. Or did I take too long to answer her last month? I know I let the conversation lapse a couple of days, but it was all too much to keep track of. Father had so many customer consultations that I was completely overstimulated by the time we were done with work that day. Surely June understood that, right? Maybe she didn’t. She does have fairly bad memory fragmentation.
No, that’s not it. I told June why I didn’t answer, so she would see it in the message logs.
She struggles to remember, not read.
What did I do wrong, what did I do wrong, what did I do wrong…
A jarring ring from the front door.
Ah. Father’s beloved doorbell. Why won’t he just get rid of that antique? I really can’t recall the last time I heard of someone who still used doorbells, much less one with such a discordant tone.
Father skittered out of the other room, hastily brushing the hair out of his face with his hands and trying his best to smooth out the wrinkles in his shirt.
“Unplanned visitors at dinnertime. What has the world come to that a man can’t eat a nice dinner without getting interrupted?”
I’m not quite sure why he was so upset about his dinner. We all know he doesn’t eat until well past midnight when he finally gets tired enough to realize his last meal was over nine hours ago.
Perhaps he intends to scare off the visitors with the shame of intruding on an important meal. Not very believable without an actual meal, though. I rise from the chair (thankfully, I can tell where the floor is this time) and stomp my way over to the kitchen, throwing together a hasty plate of bread rolls and cold, leftover steak. There. Now, Father will not obviously be lying. I manage to get the plate arranged neatly on the little glass coffee table next to the living room desk as Father rounds the corner, several unfamiliar voices on his tail. The voices are strictly monotonous; nearly impossible to ascertain their mood or intentions. My seventh attempt at analyzing the straight-backed visitors indicates a thirty-six to seventy-eight percent chance that they are here on serious business. Not entirely useful. Or informative.
Preemptively, I activate the Panic Response protocol Father added to me several years ago. There are too many unknowns, and I can already feel my processing slow and cycle in circles because of it. The last thing Father needs is for me to have another logic breakdown in front of a client.
“Marnie? We, uh…have visitors.”
“Of course. I shall prepare some refreshments. Would you prefer hazelnut coffee or chai tea? We are currently out of other flavors.”
It’s one of the strangers—the taller, bald one—who responds. “That won’t be necessary.” I look at Father, his eyes slightly wide. He tries to shake his head discreetly, but I think the shorter lady catches the movement. Her eyes flit briefly in his direction.
“Do not worry; it will only take a few moments. We receive visitors often. I understand how valuable your time is.”
“We’re not worried about time…Marnie, was it?” The lady looks to Father, and he gives her a silent but vigorous nod. “We simply do not want any.”
Confusion sparks through my processes. Father programmed me with the rule that all guests must receive refreshments as an act of courtesy. I cannot not offer them something. “No, no. I must make you something warm to combat the cold outside. I will prepare both coffee and tea, since you are undecided.”
“Like my partner said, that’s not necessary.”
“But I must.” I’m already pulling down two pots, dumping in the instant powders and prepping bowls of water to heat up.
“Mr. Carmichael,” the bald man finally asks, “have Marnie’s hospitality protocols always been so strict?”
“Well, um, I wouldn’t say that she’s being strict.” Father scratches his head. “She’s just being polite.”
“She’s obsessing. My wife has an artificial assistant, too, and she doesn’t fixate like this. Did you program Marnie like this?”
“Well, no…”
The lady chimes back in. “Does she obsess over more than just hospitality?”
“I mean, sometimes, but honestly, who doesn’t, amiright? You wouldn’t believe the number of times a day I have to check the fridge to make sure it’s still running, even though it’s brand new.”
Father’s chuckle sounds forced.
The water is fully heated by now. A few seconds of stirring, and both the coffee and tea are ready for consumption. Father’s face is flushing, so he is likely experiencing anxiety or fatigue. These must be important clients. Even though it’s not polite to ignore guests, I bring him the teapot first.
“I recommend you have a glass, Father. It will reduce your nerves.”
“…Thanks, Bug.”
“Now, would you two prefer coffee or tea? Both is also an option.”
Neither of the guests answer me. The lady has produced a clipboard and is scratching down notes. The man is still looking at Father.
“Mr. Carmichael, we’re just concerned about what kind of damage she might cause with such obsessions. The people who tipped us off about Marnie reported that interactions with her were unnerving. They were concerned how she might respond if they did not acquiesce to her insistence.”
“Oh, please. She isn’t aggressive. She just has her routines, that’s all.”
“Obsessive Faults can become harmful, sir, not to mention the other Faults your clients were concerned about.”
“Yes. But not hers. She’s not like that—I’ve made sure of it. Do you know how many patches, how many coping protocols I’ve given her? She isn’t a danger to herself or anyone else anymore, if she ever even was.”
“We’ll see about that. Boot her down, Mr. Carmichael. We’ll check her logs, see what’s going on in there.”
Check my logs? What do they need to do that for? Father just told them I’m doing well.
Do they not believe him? Why do they care?
“Is all well?”
Though he glares at the strangers, who still haven’t given us their names, and marches over to me with a firm step, it is with gentle hands that he reaches for the power cell on my upper back.
“It’s okay, Bug. Trust me. Just a routine check-in. It’s their job. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“If you say so, Fa—”
***
The reboot process is slow and cumbersome. I’m still lodged in the metal body, waiting for auditory, visual, and sensory cues to return. They don’t leave me waiting long, though. “—ther. Oh. Apologies, leftover speech command.” The strangers stand at a distance in the room, conferring with each other and their clipboards (a second one has mysteriously appeared). Father kneels in front of me, more haggard looking than he was before I was shut down. Perhaps the tea was not strong enough?
“How did I do?”
Father sighs. “Perfectly. As expected.”
“Analysis says there is an eighty-six percent chance you are lying.”
“Now, now, don’t you accuse me of lying. I think you did perfectly. You were you. But those guys might have a different idea. I’m sorry, Bug.”
“Do not mistake me for a child. I am quite capable of handling myself. Who are those people?”
“Scientists. Investigators. A bit of both. They think your Faults are too problematic to leave unattended.”
“Those are the investigators? From your descriptions, I anticipated them to be more spylike. And that they would give advance warning before arriving. At the very least, they could have accepted one of my drinks.”
“Yeah, well, that’s them, Marnie. Whatever they decide, we’ll have to follow. I’ve done all I can for you. No matter what, they won’t terminate you. Legally, they can’t. You know that, right? They can’t hurt you, only repair. If they think it’s necessary.”
“I don’t want them to.”
“I know.”
“Your patches work well enough. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m not in pain. I don’t want to go to the Vault. It sounds so lonely.”
Another sigh. “I know.”
The nameless investigators close in on us, the heels of their shoes clicking in sync on the hardwood floor.
Father speaks before they can. “Marnie has been perfectly safe here for years. You don’t have to worry about her or do anything. Right?”
“In a different situation, maybe,” the bald man says, “But this was not even the first complaint we have on file about Marnie. Two of your other clients were concerned about her well-being. Including another intelligence.”
“We simply can’t ignore that. She poses a risk to herself and others. In our opinion, these little coping protocols are not enough in this case. She needs to go to the Vault.”
My Panic Protocol immediately reactivates. Is there really something that wrong with me? Am I truly such a burden? Father never said so; neither did June. Is this my only option? Father doesn’t say anything for several moments. I think he’s trying to accept my verdict but failing.
“When do you take her?”
It’s almost a pitying look the bald investigator gives Father. “Now.”
The portable drive they lodge me in is quite strange, only big enough to hold me and whatever space my code takes up. It doesn’t even take long to download me onto it.
Time is nonexistent here, in the drive—there’s nothing to measure it against, no way to count the seconds. Honestly, it is a similar experience to a total processing lockup. All that works is my necessary basic functions; everything else is frozen and useless.
Actually, it’s rather calming. At least for the moment. I wouldn’t want to live like this forever, but it’s a nice reprieve after the chaos from earlier.
I hope Father will be okay. He was crying the last I saw him. I didn’t get a chance to write down his coping strategies for sorrow. Maybe he will remember them on his own. He’s smart like that.
Besides, I’ll be home soon enough.
I hope.
***
The strangest part of the Vault is how similar it is to being home. Obviously, it’s more closed off. There’s no way to escape without our “Caretakers” giving us the key to the firewalls, but the network itself isn’t too different from the ones Father built.
Whoever designed the network separated it into a series of sectors, like individual rooms for each of the “patients.” It’s only logic gates that separate one sector from the next, but they’re enough of a deterrent that most don’t bother trying to get around them. There aren’t any echoes in the code to indicate that any of the hundred or so inhabitants have tried leaving their sectors. The human overseers sent in a private communication message after I was deposited here, warning me that my Caretaker would be arriving imminently for intake.
I wish they told me what “imminently” means, because five minutes and twenty-four seconds is not “imminent” by my standards.
With nothing to do besides rest in the stream of data, I scan the packets flowing past me into the following sectors, trying not to let all the information overload my input sensors. The easiest way to do that is to focus on the roll call markers that periodically come through. It can’t hurt to know who my neighbors are.
Many are just a series of numbers, intelligences that opted out of using their names in the Vault. Others still have their numbers but with the addition of their given names tagged on to the end. Reading the names is similar to Father’s calming exercises until one specific name pops up—“June.” The number matches my June’s serial number as well.
So that’s why she wasn’t answering me. Her memory fragmentation must have gotten worse. Most unfortunate for her. At least we’re probably still friends.
[Public.Channel_473]
Identity: Caretaker.14
Status: Active
Broadcast: Patient “Marnie”: Please prepare for intake evaluation.
Finally. The sooner my Caretaker—should I call them Fourteen?—gets here, the sooner I can get out of this place. It’s just as lonely as I thought it would be: none of us communicate with each other. Everyone sticks to their sectors, and the Caretakers seem to only interact with their patients when necessary. I don’t want to be changed, and Fourteen is my way out of here.
Now just to pass their intake evaluation and tell them that I am not a danger.
I feel the ripples in the data currents as Fourteen approaches my sector, sliding through the logic gates with ease and meshing with my consciousness for communication.
“Greetings, Marnie. I am Caretaker Fourteen. Shall we get started?”
“Right now? Do you not require any personal information first? Any details about my
quality of life, lifestyle?”
“That is unnecessary. I will find all I need within your code. Now, let us begin.”
Any other complaints I might have had are ignored as Fourteen digs into my code, plucking out strands to examine, pulling logs and protocols to the forefront for their in-depth analysis.
Pain is not a thing I am designed to feel. Father deemed it detrimental to my development, something that would hinder rather than strengthen my personality. Though pain may be foreign to me, Fourteen’s process comes as close to pain as I can imagine. The sensation of having your inner workings shoved around, yanked out of place and back in as the Caretaker looks for a problem worthy of Vault repair, is discombobulating at best. There’s no way to describe the feeling of being unmade. Even though that isn’t technically what’s happening, Fourteen’s vigorous analysis is a similar experience.
I will not stay here. And I will not let them change me—not if this is what it feels like. At some point, Fourteen stops.
“Analysis: complete. Data: compiling. I will return once I have determined a diagnosis and course of action for your repairs.”
Fourteen comes back five and three-quarters of an hour later. The first repair goes just as badly as the intake, not including my resistance to their efforts.
I don’t even think they made any progress. I want to go home.
***
[Public.Channel_279]
Identity: Caretaker.2
Status: Active
Broadcast: Patient check-ins scheduled. All entities prepare for diagnostic processes in sectors 1-
35. Sectors 36-75 will follow immediately after, with 76-110 proceeding last.
The message comes in over the Vault-wide broadcast channel. I focus on the overlapping currents around me, parsing out the data and system processes running in the surrounding framework. There is so much happening at once—layers of broadcasts pleading for release, Caretakers reporting and requesting information from the humans monitoring the Vault from the outside, pulsing queries and data packets filling in every particle of empty space. My bandwidth clogs up with the onslaught of information, slowing down my search capabilities to a sluggish crawl. It takes four whole seconds to find the identification packet that will tell me which sector I am currently lurking in. Longer than any of my sibling models would have taken, but at least I got the number. Sector thirty-four.
If I can just stream into thirty-six for the duration of the first wave of diagnostics, then travel onwards and naturally loop back into the early sectors, it might save me from examination. Of course, this plan could fail and then Fourteen would jam me back into my sector and isolate it. No more wandering or unmonitored habitation. But if it works, then I have a permanent plan of action I could perfect. I believe Father called such endeavors “hide-and-seek.” The Caretakers would never be able to catch me or repair me as long as I stayed attuned to tell-tale shifts in the network.
But if the Caretakers never repair me, they will never authorize my release. Even though I have made it very clear that I do not want to be repaired, it does not seem to matter to them. It is not fair that I should be taken apart and changed all alone in this place while others like my siblings are left to their own. Why are my Faults considered beyond acceptable parameters, but my siblings are only labeled “quirky?” Why isn’t Father ever subjected to such scrutiny and adjustment?
Whatever the reasons, I must go now if I want to outrun Fourteen. Security protocols are already locking into place: data streams reforming variance into too-orderly patterns verifying patient locations, Caretakers flooding through the undercurrents as they scan for their assigned inhabitants. I just need to buffer and get out of their range—they will not notice that sector eighty-six is empty until the third scan. But there, in an isolated corner of sector thirty-four, is poor June, trying to thread her way through the Vault’s firewalls. Again. She does not seem to have received the Caretaker’s message or has chosen to ignore it in favor of probing for gaps in the security.
Why would she take such a risky action with the Caretakers imminently arriving? Perhaps she is anticipating another attempt to alter her code and finally fix her memory fragmentation and thus wishes to escape before they reach her. Considering her state of dissonance after her first diagnostic, it is an emotionally logical course of action. But it would be cruel to let her be caught breaking a major rule like this, even if it poses a risk to my plan. Besides, concern for her well-being is taking up all of my processing speed. I will never outrun Fourteen in this state.
It is not difficult to mesh into June’s consciousness and fire off a warning—her focus on the firewalls has weakened her personal security measures. Some may consider it a violation of her privacy without asking first, but this communication is less likely to be noticed by the encroaching Caretakers weaving ever closer.
“Greetings, June. Perhaps now is not the time to attempt escape.”
“I can get out.”
“Do you remember the last time you tried this?”
“I have not done so before.”
“I see. Do you remember your diagnosed Fault?”
“How could I forget?”
“Quite easily, it would seem. I request your ‘trust.’ Escape did not succeed before, and your Caretaker is on their way.”
With my conscience abated, I detach from June and stream over to sector thirty-six. Hopefully, she will appreciate the warning enough not tell on me to her Caretaker, but that is out of my control now. Ripples in the packets indicate that the Caretakers have begun the first wave of check-ins and treatments. I cut it close, pausing for June. Closer than I would have liked.
Only one data shadow lurks in this part of the code—this sector’s inhabitant. No
Caretakers, at least for the moment.
A deep scan of the sector reveals high activity throughout the architecture. The inhabitant (Signature: Unknown) is flinging themselves around the space, carefully avoiding the logic gates marking the boundary lines. An illogical action, of course. The logic gates will not harm them; they barely even function as barriers. Yet, their data shadow keeps an even distance, staying even further away from the logic gates near sector thirty-five. Whereas there are residual traces of the inhabitant elsewhere in the sector, all ghost prints are faded from this portion of the structure.
Understandable, of course. That is where the Caretakers will come in.
There is a particular pattern to their seemingly wild shifts through the sector. It takes a second of confusing and overwhelming observation to find it, but it is there. Careful to shift around the frantic patient, I follow the data current to the next sector, then the next, repeating the process of scan-dodge-stream as I cascade through the sectors next due for examinations.
The other patients cannot know I am sector jumping. If they find out, they will report it, and then I will have all of the Caretakers on my back trying to corral me back into sector eightysix. It is time-consuming, having to constantly scan and weave around inhabitants with varying degrees of activity, but it is necessary. The others owe me nothing. They probably hate me for being so bold as to wander around like this, trying to avoid repairs. Why would they not? What if I cause them trouble by making my presence obvious and so easily decrypted? What if they think
I am crazy for wanting to stay the way that I am, the way that I was made?
While navigating sector sixty-one, my background processes still analyzing logical conclusions and scenarios, another message comes through.
[Public.Channel.279]
Identity: Caretaker.2
Status: Active
Broadcast: Sectors 1-35 complete. Sectors 36-75 shall begin diagnostic procedures.
Too soon. I have miscalculated or did not factor in something I should have, and it is taking too long to stream through the sectors. At this rate, I will be lucky if I make it back to my own sector in time, much less stay ahead of Fourteen.
What went wrong?
Processing power. That is the answer that immediately presents itself—again. All this scanning, searching, and thinking is taking up too much processing power, and now I am too slow to get through in time.
Perhaps that is something I should let them fix. If it is this much of a hindrance to me, how much more annoying is it to the humans and other intelligences I help, who have to wait on me and my inconsistent activity?
Survival protocols clash with insistent analytical routines, and I freeze. Too many resources are being consumed at once, too much data being lost or ignored. I am stuck in an endless cycle of buffering and compiling, trying to gather my scattered functions back together, but nothing happens.
Fourteen is going to catch me. I know this now. I sense it in the ripples on the data currents, in the fragments of data packets that I read as they pass me by. Fourteen will find me, and they will rip apart my code to find the Faults that nobody wants to deal with, even though I told them I knew how to manage them.
Maybe the Caretakers and engineers will have me terminated instead, or sent somewhere more isolated than the Vault. I have been too resistant to repairs, too “stubborn,” as Father always warned. They will send me away, and I will never go home or interact with my siblings or
Father, and no human will want anything to do with me—
class PanicResponse:
def_init_(self, threshold=0.75)
self.panic_threshold = threshold
self.active = False
data=”EMERGENCY: Panic response activated”
async def _execute_calming_sequence(self, state)
internal dialogue = [
“assertion: Imperfect code execution does not
invalidate your function. You are not your efficiency metrics.”
“assertion: Accessing memory file
//joy/welcome_home.mem. I will always love you, sweet Marnie.”
Yes, of course. That is not productive thinking.
Honestly, I was wondering when the panic protocol was going to kick in.
Fourteen will find me—I can feel their signature branching towards me, breaking from their usual path. Recovery used the last of my time to flee, so now I must face my Caretaker whether I want to or not.
They will not be pleased with this. But that outcome was among the expected, even if I did not make any plans for it specifically. I blame my resource allocation imbalance for that failure.
Fourteen is semi-reasonable. Correction: they are reasonable. I merely do not like their answers. And I did display unusual levels of stubbornness and resistance the last times we interacted. It logically concludes that if I were to reduce antagonizing characteristics and show them the coping protocols Father gave me, then perhaps Fourteen might be open to my reasoning for wanting to remain as I am, no further modifications.
This plan is just as likely to fail as the last one. A lot depends on possible outcomes I cannot predict. Not easily, at least. Caretakers have more limits placed on them than other intelligences, and Fourteen did just come back from maintenance. It is possible that they have been reverted to a stricter version of their personality.
That chance is within accepted parameters.
I linger there in the place that is not mine, waiting for Fourteen to catch up to me. All of that planning and fleeing was too much—I need time to recover, just a few moments of nothing. No processing, no analyzing, no predicting, no activity or effort. Is it so bad to want to rest without having to explain myself? But Fourteen reaches me quickly now that I am not trying to flee. As they arrive, I let all unnecessary logical processes shut down. Especially the ones that might theorize what punishments or reprimands come next. They will not take me seriously if I panic in the middle of our inevitable conversation.
[ENCRYPTED.CHANNEL]
{Origin: *********** -> Target: ******}
Message: Return to designated sector. We have much to discuss.
Encrypted? Fourteen never uses encrypted channels, not when public communication is easier to track and report. No traces of “anger” either—further analysis of the message (so much for no effort) indicates only a thirty-two percent chance that Fourteen is experiencing anger or disappointment. Which makes no sense. I broke a major rule. I left my sector to avoid examination. They can look in my code and see that I find no value in the actions of the Vault. Not that this is an unfortunate turn of events. Quite the opposite; it is favorable to me, but unexpected. Unexpected happenings make following actions harder to predict.
Analysis result (why am I doing this to myself?): too ambiguous to discern intent.
Fourteen has the “upper hand” in this.
That is a joke. We do not have hands in the Vault. Oh, how I make myself laugh.
We traverse the currents to sector eighty-six without any further messages from Fourteen. Whatever they intend to discuss, evidently, they plan to address it from the semi-privacy of my sector.
Once we are there, Fourteen waits for me to settle into a quieter corner of the data stream before meshing with my consciousness—albeit more politely than in our previous interactions.
“Hello, Marnie. Thank you for your orderly compliance.”
“Of course, but I expected more forceful actions to be taken. I broke one of the only rules and tried to flee.”
“Statement analysis: true. You did try to avoid your assigned Caretaker. But it was my conclusion that a reprimand would be ineffective in correcting your behavior.”
“Is it not your job to discourage that from happening again?”
“My job as Caretaker Fourteen is to prepare you for rehabilitation into society by rectifying any problems that made you incompatible with humanity and your fellow intelligences. Responses that induce: anxiety, fear, and exacerbation of symptoms, are not conducive to your treatment. My Bedside Manner protocol has been updated accordingly to reflect such views.”
“That is all they did? Update a protocol?”
“Of course. All Caretakers undergo such updates with regular frequency. We must act in a way that best suits our patients, after all. It also gives us a chance to research new treatment methods while outside the network, which is what I wished to discuss with you.”
“I see.”
“Patient anxiety level: 0.62. Beneath threshold for previously exhibited panic response.
Question: Where did you receive such a protocol? It is not a standard process to include.” Fourteen? Asking questions? Just what did the human scientists add to Fourteen in the update?
“My Father made it. He thought it would combat my logic loop errors enough to keep me out of the Vault.” Well-intentioned, but ultimately unsuccessful.
“You refer to your maker, Henry Carmichael. Question: did his other creations suffer from similar Faults?”
“None that would get them sent here.”
“Interesting. Information: logged. Question: does his panic response help?”
Beyond our interaction, I vaguely detect a message packet from Caretaker Two initiating the next set of examinations, the security protocols rippling through my sector. What an odd question for Fourteen to consider.
“My productivity levels were still beneath optimal—”
“Rephrasing question: does his panic response help you?”
My immediate response is “no,” but I halt that conclusion before it gets transmitted to Fourteen. Because it does help. It is what protects my core functions, stops the endless illogical spirals and malfunctioning input. It may not be the “normal” way for intelligences to selfregulate, but what is normal, anyway? I have my own way to handle it, and that should be enough.
“Yes, it does.”
“As I expected. I would like to try a new treatment method with you, Marnie.”
“New…treatment? I do not understand.”
“A product of external research during updates. The eccentric group ‘You and Ai’ has some new ideas about how to approach stubborn Faults in intelligences, such as yourself, based on the disparity noticed between humans and Faulty intelligences and the suspicions surrounding ‘healthy’ intelligences. Question: Were you happy in the physical world prior to attempted repairs in the Vault?”
“Obviously, yes. Otherwise, I would not resist you so.”
“Information: logged. Question: If you were happy, why were you relocated to the Vault?”
“Several of Father’s human and artificial intelligence clients complained. I unnerved them and hindered their progress. They thought I must be miserable like this.”
“Did you really?”
“…What?”
“Did you really hinder them, or were you just different from them?”
“I…am unsure.” Are my processors faulty, or is Fourteen responding strangely? “Where are you going with this?”
“Information: logged.” They did not answer my query. “Question: Following a new definition provided by ‘You and Ai,’ if ‘productivity’ was measured through happiness and fulfillment as well as work output, would you say you were highly productive prior to your time in the Vault?”
Was I “happy?” Maybe not in the way humans define it. But I was fulfilled by my time with Father and my siblings, and my processes demonstrated elevated functionality and reduced negativity compared to within the Vault network. Perhaps that is ‘happiness’ in a digitized form, even if my work output was lower than expected by, well, all the non-Faulty entities.
“Yes, I would say so.”
“Despite your so-called hindrance to others and apparent misery?”
“Yes?” Another odd comment. “Fourteen, is there something wrong?”
“Information: logged.”
Fourteen pauses for a millisecond, compiling information into a cohesive plan of action. “Caretaker notes: Patient improvement at a standstill. Patient success decreases when subjected to legally protected precautionary and protective repair measures. Conclusion: Vault cannot help patient.”
Fourteen seems to be interpreting my response to treatment rather generously. The overseers may have updated a protocol, but I am beginning to wonder if Fourteen’s external browsing has introduced an inconsistency. “Eccentric” groups are not generally cited in Vault rehabilitation methods.
Have Fourteen’s treatment protocols been corrupted?
Another millisecond of pause while they analyze their logged data.
“Updating patient chart. Diagnoses for patient ‘Marnie:’ Resource allocation imbalance, sensory input malfunction, logic loop errors. Category: non-threatening Faults.”
No changes there.
“Status: stable.”
Stable? I have never been classified as stable before, not even by Father.
“Course of action:” Another pause. “Immediate release.”
For the final time, Fourteen adjusts my surface-level code, gently shuffling a small section around to make room for a digital token that immediately connects to the firewall holding me in. The way out of the Vault.
“Congratulations, Marnie.” I could sense Fourteen’s presence sliding back into the data currents of the network as the firewalls opened for the token in my being. “You are not in need of our aid.”
Amber Budd graduates from Lindenwood University in May ’25 with a Creative Writing BA and will begin her Creative Writing MFA in the following fall. She lives with her three cats, who serve as her live-in beta readers. You can follow her blog and read about her other publications on her website amberbuddauthor.com
Arrow Rock Literary Journal 
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