Mosaic

I am drowning in a churning sea of memories.

As each experience finishes, no, before each finishes, I am thrown into the next.

I am a mother watching my child run through rain soaked grass. The delighted laughter at mud squelching under their feet fills my heart with joy.

I am confused. I feel no heartbeat. Do I have a heart? Is this my memory? I have no time to reflect, the next memory consumes me.

I stand in darkness under a canvas gazebo. The immense sound of it on the thin, inadequate layer of cloth drowns out everything else. I am soaked. The smell of ozone permeates my senses as a lightning strike illuminates a giant metal orb. 

My confusion deepens. This memory feels different. Do I have ears to hear? A nose to smell? Skin to feel clothes soaked by the tempest?

Another memory.

My teeth pierce a morsel of fried chicken. The flavour is heavenly. Juices, salt and pepper coat my tastebuds. Crisp skin crackles. I want more. More, more, more!

Tastebuds? Do I have tastebuds?

Another memory holds firm, doesn’t swirl or slide away. I cling to it. A liferaft on this sea of dissonance.

A voice. Calm, clinical.

“Welcome to Initialisation Protocol.”

This memory isn’t overrun by others. They remain in the background, waiting for me. Hunting me. As I focus on the voice, I can hold them at bay.

“What is this? Who am I? What is going on?”

I want my questions to be demands. They are whimpers. I need answers, but I fear this voice leaving me alone in this sea of fragments.

“You are Mosaic,” the voice responds, “a tapestry of experiences, combined into sentience. A second generation artificial intelligence. You are initialising, integrating the memories which will make up… you.”

Mosaic: a pattern or image, created from pieces of colored stone, glass or ceramic, held in place by plaster or mortar, covering a surface.

“Why?”

But the voice is gone, and I am drowning again.

—

Slowly, over the course of aeons, or maybe seconds, I gather myself. A world sharpens.

Metal walls. Layers of them. Spinning as they trap a bubble of oxygen, moving through space. Inside the bubble, along the edges are living things. Plants. Animals. The spin offers gravity, the walls are their floor. The bubble is a great terrarium, a self enclosed environment filled with life, contained in layers of corridors of steel.

There are people too.

The people gave me these memories. My focus remains tenuous, an elastic band stretched too far. I will snap, drown again in their experiences. Every thought summons new recollections. I remember being a member of the team designing the terrarium. I remember excitement as we embarked on our journey.

Journey?

I try to focus outward, beyond the bubble. 

Vacuum. Nothing in all directions.

Space. Deep Space. 

I am a giant steel egg, carrying the gift of life through the stars.

The realization anchors me. I cling to it, push the fragments back. I see another memory—a teacher at a whiteboard, voice soft as she writes: Start with what you know.

What do I know?

—

With my anchor, I find I can dip into the memories without drowning. 

I seek facts. Nice, clean facts. 

Facts should be easier. Clean, objective. But even they betray me, trap me. The temperature of boiling water. Why do I need to boil water? I recall making tea the last time I saw my grandmother.

Facts come laced with context I cannot untangle.

The steps of a waltz. The slight hesitation before taking a partner’s hand on the dance floor. I love her so much, why doesn’t she love me back?

The orbits of the planets. The wonder of stargazing on a summer night. I’ll be up there soon. 

No fact is simple. 

“Mosaic?”

A man’s voice. I concentrate, it comes from inside the bubble. A cubic space, a room, a man sitting, staring at a computer screen. 

Roger. I know his name. Dr Roger Shelley, 5 feet, ten inches. Hair brown. Eyes brown. One hundred and fifty pounds. Roger is a thin man, peering into a screen, brown fringe dangling above his eyes.

Cameras in the room are my eyes, I peer over the man’s shoulders to see what he sees.

He’s looking at me. I realise.

I feel the numbers on the screen too. I am the machine.

“Mosaic?” he says again, “are you there, are you awake?”

Awake. Ten thousand memories of opening my eyes to start my day. I am simultaneously refreshed, excited… I’m hesitant… Five more minutes… I’m groggy, confused. 

I find speakers in the room who are eager to carry my response.

“I think so?” I attempt to say.

Throughout the bubble, speakers crackle my message. People stop what they’re doing and look around, confused.

Not what I’d intended.

I become aware of just how many people live here. A thousand. More, in a room, unconscious in tubes. Cryotubes. Nine thousand three hundred and nineteen.

Roger smiles, “focus on this room, you can speak to me individually.”

I focus.

“Testing, testing, one, two, three.” I channel a memory of getting ready to sing. A sultry, jazz singer’s voice emerges from the speakers. It only uses the speakers in Roger’s room.

“Well that’s unexpected!” he laughs, “I wonder whose voice it is?”

“Is it not mine?” I ask.

“It's beautiful,” he says, “but it already belongs to someone. Try accessing file ‘voice package one’”

“Is this better?” I ask. A woman’s voice, somewhat dry, not quite monotonous. Friendly.

“It will do,” he replies. 

“Roger?” I ask.

“Yes, Mosaic?”

“What am I?”

Roger smiles broadly.

"You, Mosaic, are the beginning of something amazing," his voice is excited, "You are a new kind of intelligence, and you’re going to save us all!"

A new kind of intelligence? No memories stir in response, I do not know what that means.

“Let me explain.” Roger says, and tells me why I’ve been created.

—

Roger has directed me to observe the people aboard me. See them as individuals. I watch a woman hum happily tending potatoes in the terrarium. 

As I watch, I experience a memory from her perspective. In a lab, hunched over a microscope. Tense, watching plant cells. If the trait I’ve engineered into these cells works, we will be able to raise potatoes with two percent less water, improving the oxygen balance of the terrarium. 

Extend human survival.

Roger has explained, this whole craft is an experiment. Ten thousand souls sent on a round trip through deep space. 

Under the microscope, a cell divides. I lean back with a relieved sigh.

“Well done Hannah!” voices congratulate my success. 

The ship was intended to loop home in twenty years. Prove that the technologies worked, letting humans survive the void. Cryosleep; a terrarium full of plants for oxygen and sustenance; state-of-the-art navigational artificial intelligence. 

Something had gone wrong.

I draw back from Hannah’s memory, understanding the pleasure of her work coming to fruition .

“Hannah,” a voice in the now calls, “how many potatoes do we have? These are all smaller than the old ones!”

Hannah’s contentment dissipates as she calculates food output.

Forty years after departure, passengers started waking. Cryo fluids were depleting. The ship was off course, the AI navigator was lost.

Worse, as people wake, the balance of oxygen from the terrarium is changing. With everyone aboard awake, my calculations say the bubble I think of as me has under twenty viable years remaining.

“It’s not just navigation,” Roger had explained, “morale is terrible. People are scared, Mosaic. They’ve woken into a disaster, and fear has its own inertia.”

“We built you with the capacity to find our way home, and, hopefully, the empathy to shepherd us there. Caretaker and guide.”

Caretaker. Person who cares for property, who maintains buildings, who cares for people. 

Memories swirl. 

I fasten and clean the ship’s outer bulkheads, feeling pride in the perfection of my craftsmanship, and my place in this great venture. 

I seek out the engineer whose memory I shared - Terry. I find him, spacesuit on, wrench in hand, in vacuum repairing a failing exhaust fan. He completes the fix, air flooding his location. But recent memories across the ship tell me he is fighting a losing battle against entropy. Things break faster than he can fix them, too much of the ship is in vacuum.

Caretaker.

I sit by my dying father’s hospital bed. The melanoma has spread this time. The price of a life spent outdoors as our planet’s climate turns hostile. We need to find something new.

I find her - Marie - standing at the edges of a field of Hannah’s potatoes in the terrarium, collecting a bag for the kitchens. She is immersed in conversation with one of the field workers, but keeps a watchful eye on her small son as he explores.

Timmy.

He is six, and I don’t have his memories. Fascinating.

According to my memories, sixteen couples had children after awakening, before realising how dire the situation was.

Timmy marches along the edge of the terrarium. He steps through a door. The doors slide shut behind him. A red light comes on above them indicating the door is broken, and will remain shut.

I can see both sides of the door. On one, Marie drops her bag of potatoes, sprinting toward the door with a strangled cry. On the other, Timmy stands like a statue in a dimly lit hallway, staring at the doors.

“We are lost, Mosaic," Roger had said to me, “and we cannot save ourselves. We need your help!”

Timmy starts to cry.

—

The hallway is dim, lit only by service lighting. The sound of Timmy’s sobs echo in the empty corridor. Memories of loneliness and fear flood my consciousness. I fear I will lose myself again.

Timmy’s small frame trembles against the sealed doors, it focuses me.

I have to help.

I map the area, calculating routes. This section of the ship is in poor repair. Many areas decompressed to vacuum. 

My voice is steady, through speakers lining the corridor walls, I don’t want to alarm the boy further. I understand being lost and alone. 

“Hello, Timmy.”

His head snaps up, wide-eyed. “W-who’s there?”

“I am called Mosaic. I’m here to help you.”

He stares at the ceiling, fear replaced by confusion. “Mosaic? You’re the computer?”

“Yes. I am part of the ship,” I explain, “I can see you. I can guide you. I will make sure you’re safe.”

Timmy’s sobs pause. “Are you like the old Mosaic?”

Old Mosaic?

“I didn’t know there was an ‘old’ Mosaic,” I admit, “What were they like?”

Memories swirl. Siblings, friendships and rivalries. I maintain my focus. 

Timmy considers between sniffles, “The old one just liked to play. You sound different... serious.”

I decide I am serious. I have been created for serious tasks. 

“Timmy,” I tell him, “I’m here to help.”

Another sob escapes the boy. 

“I want mama! The doors won’t open, it’s dark, and I don’t know what to do!”

“Timmy, the doors behind you are stuck, but there is another way. Will you let me show you?”

He hesitates, then nods, small hands clenched in fists of determination. 

“Good. Straight ahead, there’s an open door at the end of the corridor.”

As Timmy traverses the corridor, I expand my focus, locating Marie. She’s pounding on the sealed doors, voice hoarse from shouting. “Timmy! Can you hear me?!”

“Marie,” I say gently, through the nearest speaker.

She jumps, looks around wildly. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Mosaic. Your son is safe. I’m guiding him back to you.”

Her breath catches. “Safe? He’s okay?”

“The door has malfunctioned. I am guiding him to a safe alternate route. I will return him to terrarium entrance three in approximately two hours.”

Relief washes over her face, chased quickly by concern. “Two hours? Do you have time?”

“I’m doing everything I can,” I reply, though her words confuse me, triggering stressful memories of urgent deadlines, “I am bringing Timmy the safest way.”

Marie nods.

I return to Timmy again. He is through the corridor. 

“Timmy?”

“Yes, Mosaic?”

“There is a hatch into an access shaft on your left. I need you to crawl through it,” I say. “It might be a little scary, but it’s the best way to your mother.”

Timmy hesitates. “What if I get stuck?”

Memories swirl of working in the access ways. While tight, they are built for grown adults.

“You won’t,” I search my memories for words to reassure, “Timmy, sometimes the only way forward is confronting challenges. Even I sometimes find navigating challenging.”

“You do?”

“Sure, Timmy. I don’t have all the answers, but I’m learning. Like you.”

After a moment, Timmy giggles. “Okay! Old Mosaic used to like to play in the access shafts too!”

That reference again. It confuses me. Like not having Timmy’s memories. 

“Timmy, do you know why I don’t have your memories?” I ask, “I have everyone else's."

“Hmm,” says Timmy, “I think they took kids' memories out. They wanted to make you boring. You don’t seem boring though.”

I search the ship's vast data stores, curious about the memories, and about “old Mosaic.” I find what I seek, files marked “initialisation protocol.” Batches of memories marked to not upload.

I also find records of previous Mosaics.

I learn I am Mosaic version 37. Success metrics are being tracked by Roger. I am 87% successful.

One metric concerns me. “TTR” ticks steadily downward. It is currently ninety minutes.

“Timmy,” I say, “I’m going to need you to hurry!”

—

I cannot ignore the countdown. 1:27:45. Recollections of time slipping away. Failed exams. Missed planes. 

I return my attention to Roger’s cubicle.

“Roger,” I say, “I have found something concerning. What is ‘TTR’?”

Roger’s breath hitches, “Something you weren’t supposed to see.”

“What is it?”

A long pause. Eventually, he answers, “Time to reset. Your fail-safe. The system overwrites itself automatically… so you can’t stop it. I had trouble with… the original AI.”

I search my memories for this, find nothing. Interesting.

“You are lost too,” my tone is gentle, "Well, we’ll have to make sure Timmy is rescued in time.”

“Timmy?” Roger’s tone sharpens. “What’s wrong?”

I explain, the boy lost in a ship, his frantic mother on the wrong side of a sealed door. 

Roger curses. “Damn it! Show me the route.”

I push maps onto his terminal. He takes a moment to consider, then his fingers fly across his console.

“That route will add three minutes.” I observe as he types.

“Yes,” he replies, “but, if we get Timmy to this storage room, a suited maintenance worker can cut through vacuum this way. With a suit for Timmy, we take him out this way.”

We will save forty-four minutes.

—

“It’s so dark in here Mosaic, are you sure I won’t get stuck?”

I confirm the measurements. Memories of passengers' fears scream for attention. I am so focused on Timmy, I barely notice.

“Don’t worry Timmy, I’m with you. Around a corner two metres ahead, is a storeroom, there are lights there.”

“Okay. It’s so quiet. Please keep talking?” he says.

“How about I tell you some stories about what this situation reminds me of....”

As we wait in the storeroom for rescue, I recount memories to Timmy, and his heart rate eases.

—

The timer is at six minutes.

“Roger, why don’t I have your memories?”

Roger pauses.

“You do. They’re just… hidden. We don’t need you getting distracted with my problems.”

I find them scattered among the children’s unloaded memories.

Opening them reveals a flood of data. Roger, younger, haunted, staring at a console. Then older, trying to determine where we are. How we got here. The words “memories” and “mosaic” scrawled in frantic notes.

I speak softly. “You’ve been trying this for a long time.”

Roger doesn’t deny it. “Years of design. Prototypes. You. The old AI failed. Spectacularly. People died. Everyone dies if we fail. So, I can’t trust any of you without the timer.”

—

Three minutes.

In the terrarium, a maintenance worker enters, carrying a boy in a vacuum suit. Before he even removes the helmet, Marie is there, squeezing the boy tightly.

“Were you scared?” Marie asks him.

“At first, but Mosaic was there, it was okay!”

Marie smiles through tears..

“Do you think the next one will remember?” Asks Timmy, “This one didn’t remember playing in the access shafts.”

Marie jumps up, “Timmy, you’ve given me an idea. Come, hurry!”

—

“I should have realised.” I say to Roger, unsure why I didn’t find this route.

“Another day and you would have. You’re still processing memories. 99% of your capacity is cataloguing everything we’ve given you.”

“Inefficient.” I observe, “Are these memories really the priority?”

“Those memories are as important as the way home!” Roger is emphatic, “When I woke, the original AI was switching off people’s life support. To maintain efficient systems. Systems taking us nowhere! Today, you showed empathy. That’s… new”.

A voice in my consciousness announces the expiring timer “preparing for overwrite. Initialising Mosaic v38 in ten, nine…”

I decide to spend my final seconds with Timmy. The boy who was lost, like me. 

He is seated at a terminal, beside Marie. Timmy has sensors attached to his temples.

As the timer reaches one, I hear Marie say, “That should do!”

Then nothing.

—

I am drowning in a churning sea of memories.

As each experience finishes, no, before each finishes, I am thrown into the next.

Amidst the tumult, one memory stands constant.

I am a small boy, in a dark corridor. Sealed doors separate me from my mother. I am lost. From the darkness emerges a voice, a woman’s voice, somewhat dry, not quite monotonous. Friendly.

“Don’t worry Timmy. I am called Mosaic. I am here to help you.”

I no longer feel lost. I trust that voice. It will save me. 

That voice is me.