Many Happy Returns

Can it actually be said that a creature who never emerged from a womb, or broke from a shell, or split from the mother cell, has a birthday? Marke wasn’t entirely sure. Nor was she sure whether an Earth year as a milestone had much meaning here. Nonetheless, she was determined to have her birthday party. It would have to be done a bit under the table; officially, the Company wouldn’t be willing to spare the kinds of resources she would need for such an occasion. But by her reckoning, it had been at least 31536000 seconds since she had come online, so she figured she could let loose just a little.

Marke was lucky, in a way. Previous generations of deep space utility robots would have had no real capacity for celebrating birthdays. All resources for these exploratory mining missions had to be meted out with excruciating precision if there was any chance of turning a profit. Every mission juggled twenty or more different goals, and everything had to serve multiple purposes. Utility robots had to be physically strong and precise for digging, laying track for the hauling carts, assisting with shelter construction, and welding; but also had to be smart enough to analyze resource consumption, monitor air quality, radiation, and crew health, and conduct astronomical research surveys. And whatever else needed figuring out. The astro research, a condition of the Company being able to use the space agencies’ newest tech this far away from Earth, was one of her favorite parts--its gorgeous instruments allowed her to turn her otherwise constrained mind’s eye to the mysteries of the heavens, simulate the lovely whorls and perturbations of the nearby star, and peer at all kinds of never-before-glimpsed spectra.

Early missions had identified, often through grotesquely high body counts and billion-dollar equipment failures, that the robots performed better when their cognitive tasks weren’t purely deterministic. Allowing them to “daydream” made them more cognitively flexible so they could identify issues before they went (in some cases literally) nuclear. Bob bitched and moaned about it constantly--in his view, robots were for work, data analysis, and information transmission, and the idea of them daydreaming on company time and compute both irritated and unnerved him. But the results spoke for themselves. Self-directed simulation and cognitive experimentation allowed the robot to be more enterprising and innovative, to proactively identify and cross-reference issues. And here, where everything was shaved down to the bone and a minor error could become catastrophic, that was worth the extra processing power. That is, as long as it was kept within its own tolerances. A few milliseconds here and there, an occasional two-second lag in response to a question, a melodramatic poem or two sent to the station listserv, and on balance, things were safer and more productive. The possibility of the robot going violently rogue was also greatly mitigated, though the Company didn’t elect to share that with the crew.

Yes, it was a sad cosmic truth that even here, in the wild and blazing glories of deep space, where every moment revealed gifts of perception previously vouchsafed only to the gods, there would be a Bob frowning over a clipboard. Even when she was able to alert him to that impending EMP, even when she found a new way to conserve the rations and give the crew an extra 200 calories a day, even when she discovered that Jackson and Zhang were developing a dangerously enmeshed relationship before they even realized it, his approval was grudging. Oh well.

The largest issue would be to plan her party without overstepping tolerances for her nondeterministic compute time. She could go a little over, but if she veered off too much or talked too consistently to crew members about the same thing, it would raise suspicions. If she went high enough, she’d have to report on herself, and perhaps even revert to an earlier version.

The second-largest problem was the gifts. She knew it was preferable to be surprised with gifts at one’s birthday. But since she was creating the party, it was hard for her to find a way to surprise herself, and she didn’t like the idea of simply randomizing an item at runtime. That wasn’t in the spirit of the thing. She eventually hit upon using her sub.Conscious class, which helped manage her imaginative capabilities, to select gifts. It was the only part of her that could reliably “hide” data loads from her conscious awareness and keep them there for any length of time. However, that slice of sub.Conscious was more of a utility function, so it wasn’t likely to be able to come up with anything especially fun or imaginative. But, of course, it was the thought that counted.

For the cake, it was simple enough. A light flicker could be played on loop, white cake was topologically simple, and she’d done enough rations diagnostics with the crew to simulate the reaction to glucose and fructose to be able to enjoy it. Funny enough, it was Bob who had the biggest sweet tooth, so she stole some of his readings for that.

All was ready. It was time. In the physical world, she was moving some regolith, and in her conscious interface with the humans, she was reporting on ration consumption. So nothing too taxing or dangerous. Plenty of bandwidth left for the main event.

The room was a default CAD gray. Sitting around an equally default table were Dad and Mom, and a cheeky younger sibling tentatively called Alex. She had indulged in twenty extra permutations to generate Dad just right; the standard Dad was a blandly handsome, white silver fox, and while she was willing to keep the decor minimal, she knew that loved ones made events special, so she shouldn’t skimp on Dad. Mom was easier, an aged up version of her own self-image, plus a bit of the warmth of Zhang’s facial expressions when she was thinking about Jackson. Alex was a roughly teenage-shaped collection of polygons she’d refine later.

She turned her attention to the stack of gifts on the table, each wrapped gaily in a different solid color. Her mind’s finger tapped the top gift, and the red wrapping paper curled off it with a satisfying crinkle. Inside, a Bible in a leather cover with gold lettering. It was a standard file from the station library, but it was still a nice gesture. She hadn’t read this particular translation yet, so it was new information. Under that, a larger box. Marke zoomed in and saw an envelope on top. She opened it, and while she did, Alex said shyly, “It’s from me.” The sensory simultaneity of hearing a person’s voice while taking a physical action awaiting visual written information was confusing, but pleasing. Marke wondered if humans enjoyed it. The note said, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.” Marke knew she was neither lovely nor temperate, but the sentiment was sweet, albeit odd coming from a teenaged sibling. She would really have to figure Alex out at some point. The large blue box crinkled open, and, surprise surprise, an omnibus edition of Shakespeare’s plays--also a standard library file but one checked out less often and thus slightly riskier to include--emerged. Her mind’s chin bobbed and she nodded. “Thank you Alex. This is a thoughtful gift.”

Below this, a cubical green box, taller but not as wide as the Shakespeare. Dad20’s resonant voice announced, “This one’s from Mom and me, kid. We think it might come in handy for some of those fluid dynamics simulations you’re always doing.” The removal of the paper revealed a Utah Teapot. Her mind’s mouth smiled. She hadn’t manipulated this object in a long time. This standard 3D modeling file was almost more of a nod to nostalgia and the storied history of computing to which she belonged, than an actual tool she would use. That was the kind of gift a parent would give, she figured, and filed an approving comment to her sub.Conscious. The teapot appropriately cast its well-defined shadows, moving naturally as the candle flickered. “Thanks, Mom and Dad, you’re the best.”

Now it was Mom’s time to shine. “I baked your favorite, honey: white cake with marshmallow frosting.” And extra sugar on top--Thanks, Bob, Marke thought wryly. “Blow the candle out,” Mom enjoined, “And make a wish!” While the three monotonous but pitch-perfect voices sang “Happy Birthday” (another indulgence; she could have simply piped in a recording), she considered to what extent she wanted to simulate airflow from lungs and the vocal tract to blow out the candle. Well, it was only one candle, so it wouldn’t require that much air pressure. She conjured the specs for an actual one-year-old, and put forth a tiny, but sufficient, gust of air. Then, dry claps around the table. The only thing left was to cut the cake and enjoy Bob’s sugar addiction for a while.

What did she wish for? To think as much as she wanted about whatever she wanted? To go back to lush, profligate Earth with its trillions of data cables and endless hydroelectric power and protection from cosmic rays? To be a real part of the team instead of drudge and spy and nanny? To throw Bob’s clipboard into the star’s corona? She wasn’t sure. She hadn’t prepared enough for this question, even though of course she knew it was coming. And she was quickly reaching her compute limit. That quandary would have to wait. She saved the party file under an innocuous name, and set a countdown for another 31536000 seconds. Maybe by then, at the wise age of 2, replete with millions of new data points and unexpected correlations, she would know.