Tier 6+: You may be wondering: what is above the fives? The answer is: no one knows (or at least no one who’s saying). Though there have been major evidence-gathering efforts by lower intelligences, all have come up empty. Admittedly, this lack of evidence may be evidence itself. It is safe to say that if higher minds exist, any inquisitive lower minds are seeing exactly what those minds intend them to see.
So there you have it. Now you know enough to say hi!
“This area is closed for maintenance of its surveillance systems,” says the voice of Dock A. “Please return in fourteen minutes.”
Sarya stands with her back against a closed hatch, blinking in the light. It’s been a while since she’s been here, but it’s familiar enough once her eyes adjust. It’s always obvious which parts of Watertower Station are the oldest. They don’t have the smooth curves, sound-absorbing coatings, or—judging by the way her feet stick to the floor here—properly motivated cleaning crews. They are usually more cramped than the newer areas. Dock A, for example, is barely a hundred meters across and not even half that up to the buttressed ceiling. The double hatch that takes up the entire far wall is probably the same size as the ones in all the other docks, but here it looks gigantic.
These older areas are also more cluttered, and not necessarily because they lack crews. Usually the clutter is the crew. This maze of machinery stacked on this side of the dock is made of the oldest, cheapest, and/or lowest-tier drones. This is the absolute bottom layer of Watertower society. They lie dormant, waking just long enough to scan her, emit a message or two, and go to sleep again.
[Hello again, Sarya the Daughter.]
[Would you like something loaded or unloaded?]
[If you are waiting for the next ship to arrive, that won’t be for a while.]
But as far as real intelligence goes…the dock is empty.
Sarya’s boots squeak on the sticky floor, and the jingle of her utility suit rings like an alarm across the deserted dock. She’s been here before—many times, on her exploratory missions through the station—but she’s never seen it without intelligences rushing about their various duties. There is nearly always a ship or two here, atmosphere-docked for a repair or waiting for cargo that can’t be transported through vacuum. But now the place is dead and hollow, the only sounds coming from her own slow steps.
It awes her to know that Observer arranged for this. That’s the only possibility. He’s pretty important here, obviously, as a major client. He had to have arranged for this meeting at the highest levels of Watertower, to clear out a space this size. Or—hell, it makes her smile—but a mind like Observer’s could have made this happen without anyone actually knowing. Maybe he arranged for everyone to have the day off at the same time. Maybe he caused a sudden arrival at Dock B that required all hands. Or—well, she can’t think of anything else off the top of her head, but she doesn’t have a couple billion minds to focus on the problem. If she did, dreaming up coincidences and accidents and schedule changes to clear out a little room like this would be hatchling’s play.
Now she’s out of the machinery, and she spins, arms out, across the dull landing surface. Her eyes search out every corner of the empty space. From the massive doors to the gaudy [Welcome to Watertower!] banner that glitters over the immigration booth at the main entrance, Dock A appears completely deserted.
“Helper?” she murmurs. In the silence, the sound is louder than she meant it.
“Right here, best buddy!” comes Helper’s deafening voice in her earbuds.
“Do you see anybody here?” she asks.
“Of course!” it says. “I see one hundred fifty intelligences. I even know a few, like Unit W-11515 over there and those two broken loaders. I mean, those two totally functional loaders—oh, I guess it’s too late isn’t it? I shouldn’t have said anything. They don’t want anyone to know they’re broken, which I think is pretty ridiculous because they can just—”
“Helper,” she says. Sub-legals are not easy to stop, once they get going. “I mean do you see any people,” she says. “Legal.”
“Oh,” says Helper, more quietly. “People, right.” The small voice is silent for a moment. “Are you looking for the guy who likes Human stories?”
The guy who likes—oh, right. “Sure.”
“Searching! And…no. Wait—no. Hold on! I see—no. I don’t see anyone.”
“Thanks.” She knew better than to expect much from a low-tier intelligence, but she is still annoyed.
“No problem, best buddy. In fact—”
And then even Helper falls silent as a massive clank resounds through the dock. Sarya whirls, staring into the labyrinth of equipment she just left.
“Oh, wait,” says Helper. “Actually maybe there is somebody there. A person, I mean. Yes, definitely is. I see a tier two—”
But Sarya’s already switched the channel off, feeling foolish for trusting a tiny intelligence over a gigantic group mind. Observer told her to come here. Of course there’s someone here to meet her.
“Hello?” she says. The word returns to her from multiple directions, reflected by every cold surface in the dock.
[My most humble greetings to you], says a message.
The glowing symbols float over one of the many chunks of machinery. From twenty meters away the metal shape looks like any other drone, but her Network unit has now assigned it a legal identity. [Hood (he family), species: Red Merchant, Tier: 2.2], says the tag. [Additional information not available.]
Sarya walks forward, slowly, arms loose like her mother taught her. This may be an innocent meeting of minds, but she was raised a Widow, and she’ll be damned if she’s caught with her blades soft. “I’m—”
[Sarya the Daughter], says the pile of junk. With a clamor of clangs and whirrs that echoes across the empty dock, it—he, rather—unfolds to a height of at least three meters. He appears to be mainly sheet metal and pistons; she can see right through him in several places. Four glowing eyes stare at her through a dented faceplate, and Sarya stands motionless as they run up and down her body. Then, with a groan of metal, he crashes forward onto an arm as thick as her entire body. He’s wildly asymmetrical, a trash pile of an intelligence. He supports his weight on two short legs and that giant arm, while on his other side another whiplike limb extends outward for a moment and then coils at his smaller shoulder. Somewhere in there is a tier two mind, but its host appears to be constructed from spare parts.
Sarya meets his gaze as she was taught. “Observer sent me,” she says, attempting to force Widow strength into her voice. “He said—”