Written by TS Luikart
It had been going so well.
His shots had been landing above probability, his opponents had been falling ahead of projections, and the meatbag-onlookers’ aggregate howl-volume indicated peak enjoyment of his performance.
But then his pilot woke up.
The human screamed and sputtered, shedding his drugged stupor at precisely the right (wrong) moment to trip every internal status sensor and distract Helix from the Redbrick Highlighter. It was nearly fatal; its plasma cannon fused three separate and vital turret-control systems.
Helix’s “pray” algorithm was a joke, of course — one of the first distilled to code at the dawn of the master Omega “humor” algorithm — and so there was no point in running it.
Instead, Helix whipped into a sidelong slide, somehow avoided flipping, and saved his hull from a breach at the cost of several crucial heat-control components.
Helix fired up the “pray” algorithm. Why not?
“What the… Where am I?”It was the pilot. Helix’s “strategy” and “meat-relations” algorithms debated leaving the human in the (figurative) dark. It wasn’t immediately clear why they both agreed against.
“You’re in a turbine cockpit.” It occurred to Helix that it was also literally dark in the meat-chamber. Helix keyed the interior glow-grid.
“Who said that?”
“My designator is Helix.”
“You’re a computer.”
“A sentient.” Helix’s “contempt” algorithm was world-class. Most dueling AIs were top-of-the-line in that regard.
Helix monitored incoming fire, streaking between cover while his surviving opponents peppered each other on the other side of the arena. Perhaps he could score another checkpoint before he had to go head-to-head with any of them again. Odds seemed slim, but it was hard to know for sure because “strategy” and “meat-relations” had added a task to the main processing queue that was preventing him from getting a high-quality read on the exact odds.
“Wha…” The meat shook its head, clearing cobwebs. “What am I doing here?”
Helix computed that the question was practical, rather than based in existential philosophy. “The rules of the Circuit require every turbine to have a meat-pilot. Superfluous or no, conscious or not. For whatever reason, you were installed for this particular Circuit race.”
“We’re on the bloody Circuit?!”
“Until we’re destroyed.” And then, Helix added: “What’s your name?” (Why did he want to know that?)
“It’s Will. So I’m about to die?”
Helix jerked abruptly sideways, barely avoiding an Outworlder’s grav-mag snare. His “mood” algorithm indicated a substantial counter-preference for being rammed just now. His “humor” and “contempt” algorithms both suggested that he respond, “All humans are about to die,” but “strategy” and “meat-relations” killed that process before it could actuate. Instead (why?) Helix said: “Not today, Will. But I’m going to need your help.”
“Several crucial turret control systems are non-operational.”
“That seems bad.”
“It prevents me from firing the main turret, Will, so yes, that’s bad.” (Why was he conveying damage status to the meat-bag?) “No turret, no shooting. No shooting, no victory. No victory, flaming death for Will.”
“The good news, Will, is that the manual overrides remain functional.”
“It means you can fire the turret, Will.” (As the words came out his cockpit-speaker, Helix understood. He saved a note to increase future priority of the processor-requests generated at the intersection of “strategy” and “meat-relations.”)
The human was silent for an amount of time that Helix didn’t track. He adjusted vector and axis to increase the odds of optimally deflecting his Redbrick opponent’s incoming tracer fire.
“Alright… what do I do?”
“That’s the spirit, Will! First, I need you to unbuckle that harness. Then I’ll pop the hatch…”
His odds of victory, processed Helix, had leapt dramatically from their asymptote of zero.