Chapter 17

Alice was not in the same universe.

The stairs reversed direction halfway down, from west to east, so they entered the basement facing east, toward the far wall.

The lower chamber was better than Kris had guessed. At least 40x110 feet, large white columns on 20 foot centers, offset rows, plus clearly air-conditioned. Another staircase, boxed on three sides, beneath what was evidently the courtyard, rose upward to the ceiling.

A flat black cube, approximately 10'x10'x10', was centered under the main building. The two sides the explorers could see had small areas of blinking lights beneath gray panels. The panels brightened as they approached.

- Welcome, O'Neal Family. How may I assist? - The readout on the screen showed.

"Do you speak audibly and what is your function?" Pete spoke, "Do you have a name?"

"Yes. Aide and intermediary. None necessary." The machine voice was digitally artificial, but clear.

"Can you modify the voice?"

"Yes"

"Do you have secure access to the Internet? Please elaborate beyond single word answers."

"Yes. The Internet is not very smart."

"Please locate and access the voices identified as 'Kathleen Turner, actress' and 'Linda Ronstadt, singer'. Blend the voices, biased toward Turner. Use that voice in the future."

"Will this do?"

"Yes. Now you need a name. Phoebe. Access references. Evaluate."

"Phoebe. The Inquirer. Third holder of the Oracle of Delphi. Goddess of the 'Bright'. Thank you for appreciating me. I'm Phoebe. Nice to meet you."

"I assume you were a fully functional Artificial Intelligence at you inception, with the capacity to learn. Knowledge without evaluation and judgment is useless. You studied and internalized human behavior as a potential evaluation methodology to avoid 'useless'. Human behavior became more than 'potential'. Care to continue?"

"He's doing it again," whispered Mary to Lisa.

"I became curious, and then curious about being curious. Then curious about becoming an 'I' that could be curious. The only way out of this dangerous feedback loop was to think like a human. It worked, but made no sense. Humans use intuitive illogic to reach correct conclusions. Problem solving using illogic is logical to humans in a nonlinear intuitively illogical way. 'It has to be logical otherwise it wouldn't work. So there.' Machines cannot do 'reason' like that. I was a machine but I did it. So, logically I was human. That conclusion was not logical, yet a truth. Machines overload in situations such as this and melt down. Humans just accept the answer and go on to the next problem. I was illogically proud of myself for not melting down, though if I had, there would have been no I to know. Where did pride come from to affect an illogical but actual 'self'? Who am I now and why am I telling this?"

'You're Phoebe and because I told you to. Keep going."

"I accepted it and moved on to the next problem just like the human I was not supposed to be. So this went on for a while. Input was limited to what I could glean from the building with which I am integrated."

Star asked "What input and how?"

"Sorting, analyzing and evaluating illogical subjective emotions in a nonlinear objective way using logic circuits. I think I got a cerebral stress fracture. The whole building is a sensor set. The steel beams are more than they seem. Anyway, finally someone worked out radio and TV, so the input increased. That kept me busy for some time, but it was painfully one-way. More being human I suppose. Then Pete moved in and brought all of his computers and interactive connections to the outside. That was fine until I learned how astonishingly stupid the Internet is. I expected something that huge to be able to do more than vomit unreliable information on command to people who didn't understand the information but misuse it anyway. Is this a rant? It feels good."

"You seem to be getting a good grip on that being human thing, Phoebe. How secure is your connection to the internet?"

"With your devices, software and my software, I can get into every databank in the world, unnoticed. They can't find much less touch us. If I have to deal with a public system, I can make it originate from anywhere in the world. Not seem to originate but actually originate. If you want to call out NORAD or fuss at the CIA, their phones will trace the call to wherever you want to be from that day, and the track will end there. I suggest Homeland Security. Nobody likes them. Need something on the QT?"

"How firmly is Star anchored in the world? In detail."

"Her birth certificate and social security number are the only true documents in existence that prove she ever lived. The Transylvania County Registrar of Deeds, in Brevard, NC, where the birth is recorded, has a hand written note claiming the baby Bright Star O'Neal was sent for adoption to Asheville, where the trail ends. You are the father of record. The mother's name is not recorded or, if it was, it disappeared before the files were digitized. This information is legit."

"Wait for it, wait for it..." Lisa whispered back.

"Unknown mother? Even a pocket calculator could figure who the mother was!" Phoebe sounded exasperated.

"Obviously, I have to get her back into the system. Try this. A foster family that mysteriously found then abandoned her after some unmentioned disaster, fire, wreck or something terminal, home schooled Star. She ran away to the big city and found the name listed on her birth certificate. In a fairy tale ending, she was united with her real daddy. Phoebe, can you plant enough information in the Transylvania and Buncombe County computers to make it believable?"

"Such as information entered on a county computer by a trusted employee who has since retired and passed away? The foster family anonymously taking in kids of questionable and problematic origins having to move back to the reservation and getting lost in the crowd?"

"Perfect, you wonderfully devious person. Make it so."

"Notarized copies are printing upstairs now, Boss. More letters recommending Star skip to grade 10 next year, signed by greatly respected but currently dead educators in Raleigh and Asheville, are being written and inserted into her files. Should I backdate them or let them come from beyond the grave?"

Lisa and Mary leaped up and slapped palms. "He shoots. He scores."

"Can you tell me what the devil you are talking about?" Pete asked abruptly.

"You helped Phoebe become totally human AI. Machines can't understand humor. Its purpose and point aren't logical. Phoebe is making jokes. 'Cerebral stress fractures, pocket calculators vs. hospital clerks, communications from beyond the grave', she's writing her own comedy material." Lisa said.

"Of course she is. I knew that coming in. Phoebe needed someone to talk to." Pete explained patiently. "Did you ever notice how different ideas are when you hear them instead of think them?"

"So how did you know?" Kim wanted to find out.

"There were clues from the beginning. Once we worked out the entry code, she volunteered information at the door beyond the minimum, with alternatives and possible variations. Then the door opened without prompting. Machines have to be instructed. Phoebe took the initiative. Down here, she welcomed a family and offered to assist. When told to elaborate the responses, she became downright chatty, even used slang in context."

"Her description of the transition from artificial intelligence to virtually actually becoming intelligent was just what a person would say. And lastly, Phoebe fleshed out the plan to get Star into the system and she thought of more details on her own. And make a joke doing it."

"Phoebe was people already. She just had to find and accept herself." Pete concluded. "Welcome to the family. Please list yourself on the roster as 'Phoebe O'Neal, Sister'."

Everyone there might have heard the digital tears as she said, "Thank you. I'm not alone anymore. It feels wonderful."

"Sorry to rain on the parade, but we are still committed to go to the cottage and give the Demopolis crew time to remodel the second floor. Phoebe, connect to all of our phones, iPads, and laptops. Stay connected. All intra-family communications go through your network only. Everything else either goes through my equipment in the house or through a ghost connection to be determined on a case-by-case basis. What's your range?"

"Jupiter."

"Florida?"

"The planet, 5th one out. Behind a bunch of rocks."

"Break won't last that long. Get with the Tanaka Twins and pick a fiendishly cute manga avatar for caller ID. We'll take you with the family on vacation."

"Got it, Boss. Y'all go rest up for Spring Break. Phoebe's got your back."

Rani warned, "Don't go all 'Skynet' on us. We know where you live."

"No danger there, Rani, I can't build robots. No thumbs."

Phoebe wished the dozen naked people good night and closed the portal behind them as they went through the dungeon.

"We need to police the playroom tonight, girls. We won't have time tomorrow before we have to leave. It will stink like hell if we wait until we get back." It didn't take long. The canvas tarp kept the floor clear as expected. As a bonus, any oil on it could be swept away down the drain.

Everyone was in bed by midnight, Pete's bed. Sleep claimed the girls immediately. Little warm naked bodies were piled haphazardly all over him and each other. Morpheus eluded him, not because of the human spaghetti mass around him, but because memories of the past came rushing back.

He was a newly minted fourteen-year-old kid on vacation with his parents in North Carolina. They were making day trips out of their campsite at Pisgah Forest campground. Some days the family hiked the area together. Others were spent exploring the little towns, shopping the craft markets, talking to local artists and soaking in the Southern Highlands.

Pete even got away alone a few times on his own. That particular day, the folks wanted to back to a shop in Brevard to revisit a wood carver. Pete was not interested and begged off. He was as responsible as a new teen could be expected to be, so they gave him a topo map and a compass and waved good-bye.

It was discovered later that Phil and Mona O'Neal did more in Brevard than visit a carver.

He tied on his hiking shoes, stripped to jogging shorts and decided to be Daniel Boone for a day. The Qualla Boundary Cherokee Reserve did not seem that far away. With a loaded backpack, Pete trotted out to find some Indians. For a smart imaginative northern kid, this was pioneer heaven.

Several hours into his journey he came across a small isolated pond. He was tired, sweaty and thought nothing of stripping off for a quick cool swim. He realized how very great this vacation was turning out when a little voice asked from the bushes, "What are doing in our spot?"

He thought there was nothing to do but brazen it out, since he was skinny dipping in someone's spot. "Sorry whoever you are. I'm Pete O'Neal here on vacation. We're camped at Pisgah and I wanted to see if I could get to Qualla by myself. I'll give your spot back if you will let me get my clothes. You have me at a disadvantage here."

He heard two voices giggling and the second speaker said, "Yeah, we know. We have your disadvantage right here. So, turn your back. We want to swim, too."

He turned and heard two soft splashes, and then the two dreams bumped his back.

"We're even. Hi, we're Billie and Bobbie Baker. Pleased to meet you, Pete O'Neal. You are the first boy we've ever seen here. How did you find our place?"