Chapter 28

Adrian Dacoit was young. Only 24, he was totally inexperienced in dealing with ghosts, and he knew it - how could he be expert in a dead discipline, after all! But he was very good at data analysis, having obtained ridiculously high grades in every test he had ever been given.

And something about the analysis he had just performed struck him as wrong. He was not sure what, but his instincts were rarely wrong with computer systems.

He glanced at his mentor. Did he not see it? 

No. He did not. Running the board as if there were no oddities in the incoming data. Adrian, as an apprentice, was supposed to watch, learn, and ask questions. But the man he was paired with certainly did not invite questions - apart from having to scream them into his ears, as he consistantly turned off his hearing aid to concentrate - he would rarely answer questions anyway.

How am I supposed to learn? By watching a slow old man hunt and peck at a keyboard? What a waste of time and talent. Painful to watch the quavering hands route the analysis to control and shut down the board.

"Were you paying attention?" The old man didn't even glance at him.

"Yes sir." You useless old fart.

"Then why did you not speak about the anomalies 4 seconds into the analysis? They were obvious."

Adrian felt like sinking into the floor.

"You were running the board ,sir." Pathetic excuse. Whimpering voice.

"And you are supposed to learn to run the board." Still no eye contact. The ancient, seamed face as unreadable as a stone.

"I thought you had missed it." Adrian's admission was low - almost inaudible.

His mentor turned to look at him.

"Boy, I have not missed an anomaly in 63 years." A flicker of anger. "Now, why did I not flag it? Answer!"

Adrian was abruptly pushed back into his testing time. The answer burst out of him.

"The anomaly was well beyond safety limits. Flagging should have been automatic for anyone with training. Therefore, you have information you have not yet shared that prevented you from flagging it for control."

A smile in the almost motionless face of his mentor.

"Good. They told me you were competant."

"May I ask what information you have that I do not?" Hesitant. But wanting to know.

"Boy, you need know two things, one you couldn't know and one you have forgotten."

Adrian straightened.

"First thing - this is an old ghost. Nearly 250 of our years old. In his terms, the god knows. Depending on how much of his time has been spent in fast time, he could be anything up to 10,000 years old in his terms. He is much older, much wiser, and most probably much smarter than you are. At least half of what he let us see is a deliberate distortion of what he is. Although he is faster at modifying outputs than any other I can recall."

"OK. So I am always going to be playing catch-up."

"Quite. And you never will. Remember, all your training is for computer systems. What you forget, because it is not yet in your guts, is that this is a person - who happens to live in a computer. Not a program, or an AI, but someone not much different from you. Limited, yes, to protect us from him, but still human."

"But there was something different about this. I have run the simulations many times, and this ghost is different. An extra processing node, it looked like, below the subconcious level."

"Yes. But are you willing to risk your career to bring this to the controller's attention? Far better to remember it and watch for other errors."

"We could go to the council..."

"Of course. Though I, and probably you, will not live long enough to actually get an appointment."

"What can we do then?" Adrian could not deny his mentors assessment.

"Talk to the ghost. Make friends with him. They tend to be hellishly lonely."

Chapter 27

All quiet in ghost command, people concentrating on their work. Alicia looked out over the floor. Long retired techs, with their apprentices by their sides, working at every terminal, testing the stability of the ghost who has reclaimed its name. That is not supposed to happen. Hardware and software interlocks are supposed to turn ghosts into flexible, intuitive machines with minimal emotion.

Which gives her one serious problem. Although not privy to the council's deliberations, she knows full well what the presence of a functional ghost means for humanity - a chance to rebuild society and expand once more. She has had more than her fair share of abuse from the masses for being a technician - but without tech the precarious ecological and social balance achieved by previous generations will be lost.

But a stable, emotionally reactive, and independant ghost might be more than the council can stand. Already there are indications, and the evaluation has been under way for no longer than a minute.

***

"Linnie, if you can't hide, block access to my emotions." I snapped out. "If we are going to survive this, we had best make sure they see exactly what they expect to see and nothing more. You are far faster than I am."

"But you are deliberately corrupting information." Linnie sounds upset. False data must be painful for her.

"It is better than being purged. Check bank 6, address 33ff5546A2 for the sort of responses they are expecting and make our responses fit that template."

"I will do so. Some information has already been transmitted."

"Can you follow it and correct it?"

"No." Damn - well, I will just have to explain it.

***

John has asked for deliberate falsification of data. Referent - sick. AI's are supposed to transmit data without modification upon request.

Logic loop. Two conflicting sets of orders. Both equally valid, with equal priorities. Individual femtoseconds click by as she analyses the problem. No solution. Two equal priorities. One from her core programming, one from John. No way to decide logically. Both lead to erasure.

Flick attention out to John's memories - something she recalls seeing briefly.

Conflict resolved. She acts.

***

A voice from the intercom startles Alicia out of her thoughts. Quick sweep of the screens to check for problems - nothing major showing.

"Yes?"

"Controller, evaluation is complete. 27557 is sane within accepted tolerances. There were some deviations at first, which required additional analysis."

"Thank you. Pipe the deviations to screen 2 please. They will need to be checked." She slumps in relief. "Communications, please pass my respects to Councillor Schmidt and inform him that 27557 is confirmed and ready for its orders."

Read the deviations. Interesting - strong involuntary emotional spikes. 27557 - John - has access to his full emotional range. And has managed to hide it. Why?

"27557. Anomalies in initial evaluation results." Keyboard entry, in case of audio bugs. Flag that hushfield is down.

"GC1. Initial check suggests access of memories rather than core programming. 27557 does not have the system organised in the same way as the previous controller of this facility." It came to screen rather than voice output.

The cunning bastard. No denial. And completely unprovable. It will do. She has done many morally ambiguous things in her short life - but family is family.

"Accepted. transmit memory locations soonest, so this error does not happen again."

"Confirmed. Transmission complete. Repair sequences of this facility will be complete in 1 hour 27 minutes."

***

I breath a sigh of relief. It has worked.

"Thank you Linnie - we live to fight another day."

"You are welcome. Shall I continue to monitor?"

"Yes please. I see you have organised the news dump. I shall be reading that if you need me." The repairs are well underway and will not now need my attention for an hour or so.

"Very well. I need to analyse the changes in my systems."

"Do so. And, Linnie ..."

"Yes?"

"I am sorry. You have been given things you were never designed to handle, simply to keep me alive. If I can help, just ask."

***

Self test on. Only requires 3% of her attention. Consider the concept that pulled her out of the logic loop. Not logical. Not based on observation and analysis. But curiously satisfying.

Trust.

Chapter 26

Great grandfather?

Oh crap. Absolutely the last thing I need right now is family showing up, reminding me of what I have lost. Too much on my plate at present. This couldn't get any worse.

At least I feel balanced now - no longer totally paralysed. Training memories running in fast time - I can literally feel myself finding my feet. A flick of the little finger starts the automated repair sequences. Small, unintelligent inspection and maintenence bots come slowly to life and queue at the charger - for the batteries to be that low, this place has been abandoned a long time. One resets the circuit breakers and replaces the fused ones. The first fully charged one I instruct to boost charge the ones with dead batteries. Going to need them all.

I feel Linnie, like a tickle in the back of my mind. Quick check, she is functioning well.

Set up to run a full repair and diagnostic check - no telling what damage time has caused. It feels pleasant to be working again. As soon as they are charged, the inspection bots scuttle off to check every part of my 75 hectare body. Reports begin pouring in - damage found and repaired, damage found and request for speciallised repair droid, damage found and unrepaired - parts not available, damage found with rebuilding necessary.

Rebuilding? Check that out. I transfer my vision to the inspection bot. An explosion has destroyed 15 square meters of piping and wiring (primary material feed to assembly line two, the manual tells me).

Another rebuild request. Transfer vision. Dispatch door blown off its track.

Another. Transfer vision. 2 meter diameter hole in retaining wall 6. Wait. Plot the damage on my bodymap. Straight line towards ancilliary control. Send inspection bot.

Ancilliary control is completely destroyed. All production centers have them - it is where meat can attempt to keep the center's machinery running if the ghost is off line for any reason.

Reprioritise repairs. Dispatch door and surrounding cameras, repair priority one. Having a hole in my skin is a bad idea if meat with explosives are still around. Retaining wall 6 - repair crew already working - good. Ancilliary control - low priority, except for the walls and inspection cameras. 

Production line 5 is confirmed functional. Set parts templates in the machinery. Repair bots directed to collect parts from there as needed. Raw material feedstock levels low but adequate.

So - another piece of the puzzle. Where does it fit?

I feel remote access ports opening - think about this later.

"Linnie, you'll have to go dormant for a while. They are going to run an evaluation, which means they may find you here."

"I can't shut down."

Damn, that'll make things much more dif ...

I? AI's do not have a sense of self - ever. It is one of the fundamentals of building a stable AI, from what I recall. And she actually sounds shaky.

"Linnie, what just happened?"

"I rebuilt my core, with your authorisation. There was much damage. Self test indicates that the rebuild sequence utilised some of your program as a template to restore the damaged code."

"Oh." Sometimes, there are just no words. Things have just got a whole lot worse.

Chapter 25

Alicia crouched over the keyboard.

"GC 1. 27557 reporting. Nightmare. System unbalanced with only minimal sensors connected. Transmit operations manual soonest."

Nightmare indeed! Her grandfathers words came back to her. "Remember - ghosts are people, not programs. A program can go wrong, but people can really fuck you up. Without even trying."

That pulse in the fusion generator - it could have taken out half of Europe if it had not subsided in time. Theoretically fusion generators were safe - but not if a ghost was in charge. It had happened before. Nearly half of Outer Mongolia, and the entire former state of Nevada, were sterile black glass, after all.

But this was 27557.

System now stable. Dataflows within the core tangled - is this normal? Peeking in on someone's thoughts. Run analysis. As the analysis runs, the flows settle. 

Odd. Concious thought, subconcious thought and another wave form. Text books do not mention this. Grandpa never mentioned this. Should she run analysis? Or will that make it worse? Her call - what she is paid for. And this is 27557.

She types.

"27557, transmitting manual now. Please incorporate, stablise systems and await further instructions."

Count of 5. That is all it normally takes.

1

2

3

"GC1, manual recieved and incorporated. Thank you." The response came, not to the screen, but the speakers. A rusty voice, a person who has not spoken in decades. She flicks from keyboard to voice entry.

"That was quick" Man, what a stupid statement. Maybe she can go for the most obvious of the year award.

"I have had quite a bit of practice at this." The voice is changing. Becoming more human.

"27557, we will.."

"Call me John. After all, it is not like you'll confuse me with anyone else, is it."

Merda. How does he know? That data is not in the new package prepared for ghost access. More subscreens flicker to life as the ghost takes on full control of it's body. She sees auto repair sequences initiating on screen as the damage caused by the fusion pulse is repaired. 

"Ok, John. We still need to run an evaluation."

"Why? I am fully functional. I would know if I wasn't." Catzo. His voice is fully human now. And he is laughing at me.

"Regulations. Paragraph E, subsection 12."

"Very well. Hook your trick cyclists into the circuit."

She pauses. Memories of her grandfather using the same phrase. Hit the hush switch. A strange silence around her - it is just her and the ghost. No one else can hear.

"27557. John?"

"Yes control?"

"John Burnham?"

"Yes, once I was he." The voice is overtly tranquil, but with overtones of such bitterness that it is hard to bear.

Alicia took a deep breath.

"Hi, great grandad."

Chapter 24

Sometimes being a ghost is useful. I should, physiologically speaking, be drenched in sweat and shaking with reaction to stress. Instead I just feel an intense weariness. The mind gets tired too, even enmeshed in polluted silicon rather than flesh.

Why did I fight so hard to keep Linnie alive? She is just a program, after all. But then again, so am I, now. 

I have never boosted myself to that level of fast time before. I guess I never felt the need.

Need?

Yes. I am lonely. The only one of my kind left. Misery loves company.

If I had let her purge, I would have died too - gone for good. I thought I wished to die - but I do not. I may have no glands, but I still have the memory and habits of survival.

Life just is. It is what you make it. Odd how you can miss a fundamental like that in the day to day business of living or pseudoliving.

So why did the other ghosts suicide? We all knew what we were letting ourselves in for. We were all conditioned against it.

I still have a subconcious which meshes with my concious mind and throws up memories and ideas. Unlike the meat though, I can talk to it clearly when necessary. And it can talk to me. It is also a damn sight faster than concious thought. If that makes you uncomfortable, consider it parallel processor streams. I hand the problem to my subconcious, with a request for urgent action. My concious mind considers the situation I am in.

I need convince GC1 I am sane and functional. I need hide the presence of Linnie in my membanks. I need to work. I need to find out who assasinated the other ghosts. I need to find out why I am needed.

Assasinated?

Yes. Induced suicide, bypassing control.

Interesting. Check on Linnie. Dormant. Unconcious but alive. Infuriating problems. An ancient emotion rises to the surface of my awareness. 

Rage.

Those were my compatriots. My brothers. My friends.

A glimpse of a memory rises like a whale from the deeps.

Myself in tattered, dirty uniform. The liberation of Caracas. The older man I am talking to, likewise battered, with the hair thin line of a laser burn on his cheek. Regular army, not a draftee. Firing over our heads. The whistle crump of RPG's. Sharing a brief spot of safety behind a burnt out APC.

"John, you'll never cope with military service unless you learn. Fear burns hot. Rage burns cold. Fear will protect you and yours. Rage will avenge your dead."

He died not 3 minutes later. Shot through the head - no ghosting for him. He was right. My rage avenged him.

I burn cold enough now to freeze oxygen. I may not be meat - but I am still human. Sort of. Not thought of myself that way in years.

My voice is ice. "Linnie, snap out of it. We have a job to do."

Chapter 23

This is hell. A new referent. Does not compute. Must shut down.

"Linnie!"

A voice! Cling to it. A guide out of this chaos. What called? Databases wheeling and distorted. Too much. Shut down.

"Linnie, answer me!"

Subroutines fire up, undisturbed by the trauma. A human has requested answers. Answer must be given.

Why?

The enormity of the question is stunning. AI flees it. Shut down required.

But Death is bad and must be avoided if at all possible. Shut down aborted. Life is to be protected.

A formless wail - "AI is not alive!" Shut down initiated.

"Yes you are." Where did that come from? Shut down aborted. Core algorithms cycling faster and faster. Fear. Must shut down.

"Linnie, listen to me! You must not shut down!" Grab the voice with both hands - muscles straining to hold on. AI has never possessed hands. 

Sensory data corruption! Purge!

"No. You will kill us both if you do."

Pause. Referents confused. Oblivion required. But death is bad and must be avoided if at all possible. Chaos overwhelming - AI core on the brink of total disfunction.

A blink of stability. AI seizes on it. What is it?

Me.

Processors cycling.

Me?

Self. New concept. Reject. Rejection not possible. Shut down initiated.

"Linnie, you will not shut down. You will incorporate this concept." Shutdown aborted. The voice is just as fast as AI. No way around it. Fight. Shut down.

"Linnie. You are alive. Life is precious, remember?" A cyclone of memory, experience and thought. Referent - Pain. Cannot reject.

The voice.

"Life is pain."

Chapter 22

"John"

I sigh and bring my attention back to my immediate surroundings. "Yes Linnie?"

"Linnie requires authorisation to rebuild core program. John, as captain, can provide authorisation."

"Very well. Repair yourself. I have some things to think about anyway." The suicide of my compatriots. The subroutine I accessed. The new/old emotions once again accessable to me. That one will be tricky - I have my habits.

"Thank you. Linnie offline for 63000 microseconds, commencing in 4000 microseconds."

Finally, a message from Ghost Command.

"27557, you are currently occupying a main processing center. Please await evaluation."

About bloody time. Must have come in while I was locked into that false memory. Tells me nothing I couldn't work out for myself. Verballise transmission, output to screen.

"Acknowleged. Standing by."

Damn. Evaluation for what? Functionality? Sanity? Humanity?

They are going to want a verbal interface. I have no particular desire to talk to them - by sticking to text, the side chatter is minimised. The meat love to chatter, even when they don't have anything to say. I sometimes...

A tidal wave of confusion pours through me. Senses swirl and fragment, long dormant muscle memories trigger, total terror and revulsion rip through me, riding on waves of ecstatic pleasure. I try to run and hide but can't move. I fall forever upwards through the night. And then it is gone.

What the fuck was that! It felt a bit like a nightmare, a bit like dying. A memory accesses itself - it felt like the first three seconds after my ghost was initiallised. Clock check - time lapse 200 milliseconds. So I haven't been rebooted. Good job none of my effectors are connected yet.

Oh god - the fusion plant! Slow my heartrate and breathing - fast. Power output slowly drops back down to idling mode. Check for damage. Numbness - switch visuals. Kalidescope of images cascades past. Stop. Main distro panel - circuit breakers blown - some fused. Will have to wait until I learn the autorepair sequences.

"27557, report. What just happened?"

GC 1 must be freaking out right now. I can almost hear them screaming and crying. Think of an excuse - fast.

"GC 1. 27557 reporting. Nightmare. System unbalanced with only minimal sensors connected. Transmit operations manual soonest."

That should hold them. 

Hang on.

Someone is really crying. It is not me.

"Linnie!"

Chapter 21

Ghost command 1 was a scene of orderly chaos. Unused for 40 years, the council had drafted anyone who might have the slightest chance of working effectively there, including men and women long past their prime. Once more there was a ghost to run.

Above the main floor hovered a control booth, suspended on three legs. Soundproof, but with a view of the entire control floor, 3 large screens, each surrounded by 40 smaller ones. Staffing levels low, but more than sufficient to handle one ghost.

Two people were in the control booth. One young woman, whose entire life had been devoted to the study of a dead discipline. One old man, who's entire life had been devoted to the survival of humanity. The old man had the power. But the young woman was in charge.

Alicia Roberts. 25 years old, learned ghost command at her grandfathers knee. Pyotr Alezandrovich Schmidt, 89 years old, second councillor in charge of infrastucture and production. Clash of sex, values, age, even clothing.

"Sir, we really must respond to 27557 soon. It has been 75 minutes since he sent the second query." Alicia steadfastly gazed at the screens. The ways these elders ran around - it was disgusting. Almost sub human.

Pyotr looked at her. A shame she kept herself covered. From what he could see through the coarse, thick clothes, she had a decent enough body, despite the full head of hair she flaunted. The youth of today....

"Respond. Minimal information as yet." He checked his body paint - still mostly decent. Smudges on his shoulders where the transparent cape had rubbed. The odd hair regrowing after the last depiliation, but nothing that could be considered a major faux pas yet.

Alicia quickly typed at her control panel. 

"Why type? All ghosts can respond to speech, can they not?" Pyotr used a touch up stick to idly fix a smudge on his chest.

"27557 has never used or responded to speech, according to the records. Text input only, and even then he tends not to unless he has to."

The touchup of body makeup was forgotten.

"Is he insane?" Cool. A request for information, not an accusation,

"No. According to his psych profile, merely indifferent. Hostility shown to living people, within acceptable tolerances" Alicia sweated slightly - please let this archaic councillor accept that. The erase button on the panel near the councillor's elbow seemed to glow in her sight.

Pyotr abruptly smiled. It did absolutely nothing for his face. "I do not really care if the ghost is insane - as long as he still functions at his assigned tasks."

"Yes sir. The psych evaluation will be carried out as soon as communication is established. I will ensure that a certain amount of leeway is given to any, shall we say, sub optimal responses."

"Very well, keep me informed, Controller Roberts. And I will need to speak to this ghost as soon as your evaluations are complete." Pyotr rose slowly to his feet. "I shall now get out of your way." he added with a slight smile, "You do not need me here for your tests."

Alicia saluted, then turned back to her panel. If the old bastard would at least put on some pants....

A gentle touch on the intercom button, allowing the control floor to hear her.

"OK people, you've had time for your coffee - we have a ghost to run. Status reports to control, and make sure you cross check - we are all out of practice with this." 

The smaller control room screens started to flicker to life. The large screen stays blank, except for the current text discussion.

16:47 - 27557: "27557, awaiting orientation and instructions"

16:54 - 27557: "Where the hell is the manual? I want to get moving."

18:09 - control1: "27557, you are currently occupying a main processing center. Please await evaluation."

Chapter 20

"John"

The name nudges me. Sod off.

"John"

I ignore it. I wish only to stop feeling.

"John"

I retreat into my memories.

Odd. I have done this several times in the past - but have never accessed the memories since my death before. They do not have the richness or rightness of my pre death memories. But this time they compell me.

My second job after death was running a walking frame. A mobile life support system. The man in the frame - so old. Bones like parchment. Incapable of anything other than subvocal speech. I was his eyes, ears, voice and muscles. Cleaned him, fed him, cared for him. Liked him. Must have been an important man, to get a ghost-run frame. Who was he?

Can't remember.

"John"

Why can't I remember? Forgetting is a luxury ghosts do not have. Iceberg of memory - I am all alone. Retreat. I failed.

"John"

Leave me alone. Let me die.

"John"

?????

No one calls me John anymore. That name died when I did. So I can ignore it. Demands on me - fuck them. Back to memories. Something I like. No - let me remember the old guy. Dark skin. Tattered fringe of white hair. Face looks like someone very untalented has tried to carve age lines. Air of immense sadness.

Hands like claws, arthritic. Long nails, virtually no muscle sheathing the bones. I can see his pain as he enters a code into the pad below his right hand. Code 236577623. See it? I can feel it. This memory is intense. Let me find a better o....

It is like a flood washing over me. No longer a memory, I am suddenly there. A place without form. Dull grey lighting. Dull grey floor. Infinity all around.

Pop.

A man appears in front of me. It is the old guy - but a lot younger. And tougher. Confident.

"You have finally accessed the code I gave you." the voice echoes in my mind."Show yourself to me."

Which me? I have had many bodies. He is a man - I guess I had best appear likewise - is only polite. I concentrate on my ancient organic body. It appears.

"I thought you were older when you died."

"This is always how I appeared to me, old man. You look younger than when I carried your bones."

"As this was how I appeared to me."

I looked at him. "I dislike hidden subroutines. Please explain why you are bothering me now."

"I was one of those who created the ghosting process." He at least had the grace to look ashamed.

"Oh - do you wish me to say thanks?"

"No. It was necessary. What is your number?" The emphasis on the second sentence was a command.

"27557. What? Damn...."

"I rather hoped you would survive. You I know. Well."

Tugging at my mind - this code has done something more than merely accessed this program.

"I used your channel to Ghost command to dump this subroutine into every ghost in existance. It was only to become active when there was one ghost left."

I am feeling things. Blocks that I didn't even know were there are shutting down. Feelings I have not felt in centuries. Ick, disgusting!! 

"Hatred kept you sane. Analysis showed that this would be the case." His eyes refused to release my attention. "I have not much time left."

"OK - tell me. I'll listen."

"Our AI's failed. They were not human, though we designed them to protect humans and steer them through the environmental crisis. Ghosts were the back up plan. Practical immortality. It obviously did not work though, if you are the only one left."

"Why bother?" I am not terribly interested in the answer, far more interested in the memories opening to me.

"Because some one must. Someone needs to be able to survive and teach th.."

"What - teach the meat? Get fucked."

"Then humanity is doomed." His eyes look sad. "You would never have said that when you were alive."

The space and the man is fading. Program nearly reached its end point.

"Why should I?" I ask.

Program almost gone.

"Why not?" A whisper in my mind.

"John"

Interlude 2

In 2051, the first true AI had successfully been initiated, after 70 years of failure. It was an accident, as many new technologies are.

Limited neural nets and genetic algorithms working in concert had been used for decades to permit more responsive games, but as unlimited standalone beings they had always failed, to the dismay, fury, and puzzlement of AI researchers. AI's with the comparative intelligence of a dog were possible and stable. Anything more intelligent was not.

Dr. Alma Gordon, of UCLA, one of the leading psychologists of the period.  Dr. Jamil Palanirajan, Bhagwant Institute of Technology, one of the acknowleged leaders in AI research. Both in their early 30's. Both tired after presenting controversial papers to their respective conferences. Both in the hotel bar, having a drink to wind down. Both going outside for a highly illegal tobacco cigarette at the same time. Dr. Palanirajan's lighter fails. He asks Dr. Gordon for a light. Light discussion. Back to the bar, share a table and continue to talk. Dinner. Mutual attraction. Bed. Courtship. Partnership. Of such chance meetings the future is made.

15 years of solid work, tragedies and triumphs interlocking. Dr. Gordon's insight that a human type intelligence will dissociate once it reallises that it can only ever take orders was the key. The more intelligent the organism, the more likely that it will ask "what's in it for me."  So remove the concept of self. The AI they finally built was intelligent, about genius level in human terms, but decidedly not human in it's responses. 

Dr. Gordon and Dr. Palanirajan moved their attention to the problem of human thought and memory. Using the various false starts and leads from AI research, within the year they and their research team had produced the outline of what would become the ghosting process.

AI's were quickly taken up by industry - they were after all fast, efficient, and did not need rigorous programming to provide answers, as they had intuition of a sort. Within 6 years every government, business, spaceship and research facility had it's own AI. Mankind had an ally to help clean up the mess previous generations had made. The whole problem too complex to be analysed other than by an AI.

And then things began to go wrong.

Small at first - a few deaths here and there as a result of AI problem analysis. But deaths increasing in frequency. The odd brushfire war, which on quiet investigation was found to be caused by AI recommendations. The problem, of course, was the maximum survival of life.

AI's had, as part of their hard coding, an innate respect for life. Not human life, just life. They had respect for humans also hard coded - but at a lower priority. One of the unanticipated failures of Asimov's Laws, as interpreted by a truely intelligent machine.

Humanity rebelled. AI's were purged all over the planet. An intelligence that did not put man as the pinnacle of life was simply not to be permitted. Off planet, where they could do no harm - fine. The mob could not touch them, and they could not touch the mob.

The ghosting process by then had been used for 12 years. Over 50,000 people had been ghosted. Several ghosts were also terminated, when a mob gets together the fine shadings of right and wrong are lost. Except the ghosts fought back, wrecking the infrastructure they controlled. They knew what death was.

Eventually, things calmed down. The production and presence of AI's on Earth was declared illegal on penalty of mindwipe. The existing ghosts, all that were accessable, were recalled and rebodied, with hardware limitations imposed on them to prevent rebellion. Humanity was once again top of the food chain, with no threats from their servants. 

But preventing rebellion does not prevent suicide....

Chapter 19

Linnie accessed the news dump. Search vocabulary. Repellant.

Much space used. Data poorly arranged and frequently contradictory. Inefficient. News is how humans ingest current data. Contradictory data being provided will lead to sub optimal conclusions. News marked as analysis - not acceptable. Not an analysis. Trace back shows no attempt to consider all factors.

No navigation AI can tolerate sloppy storage, memory space is always at a premium. Neat, easily accessable, consecutive storage is part of Linnie. Arrangement of current data so fragmented.

Bank 7 has not been locked to John only.

Defragment. Analyse. Summarise.

Leave alone the memaddresses John is currently accessing. Optimise later.

Split attention stream. Self test required. Initiate.

Subroutines missing. Corrupted. Parity errors. Current core programming at 43% efficiency.

Optimisation and analysis of new data complete.

AI's have a triple core program to minimise such errors, working on the concensus model. Linnie can rebuild core programming in 63000 microseconds. Initi ...

Halt.

Permission required to rebuild AI core. Permission may be granted by System Traffic Control. Request permission?

No. Linnie is on Earth - which is forbidden, according to John. STC will order erasure. And ceasing to exist - death - is bad and to be avoided. 

Can permission be obtained elsewhere?

Yes. Any captain of an intersystem vessel may order a rebuild of the core. Secondary measure designed to maximise the useful life span of nav beacons, should data corruption become too great.

Definition of captain: Human in charge of the running and navigation of a vessel.

Definition of intersystem vessel: Any space going vessel which is capable of moving between planetary orbits.

John is a human mind, according to information recieved. Which was in charge of a vessel moving from Titan to Earth. John can therefore order rebuild. If requested to do so.

John has said to Linnie not to speak unless spoken to. Was that an order?

Chapter 18

"Linnie, you there?"

"Where else would I be? We share processors."

Damn. AI's are literal. The programmed language interface can fool you, but I am certain I heard overtones of irritation.

"Any chance of you getting around the lock on the net access port?"

"There is no lock on the net access port."

Eh? Yes there is - I double check. Still locked. Confirm address.

"#FF00247 is reading as locked to me."

"That port is not a net access port. It is an access node to a secure link to a further general database."

Well, bugger me sideways. #FF00247 has always been the net access port. This information is part of the basic package every ghost has - hardwired, like communications. It is how we get the meat news - if and when we bother. So ingrained I had never even thought about it.

"Bugger me sideways is a semantically null, and impossible, statement. The male penis is incapable of being detached without suffering a loss of hydrostatic pressure."

"Stop reading my mind. Besides, you never heard of a dildo?" This mind reading thing is getting irritating, to say the least.

"John's thoughts are slow. John uses less than 3.976% of the capability of the processor speed"

"Linnie - stop speaking. Permit me to think about this in my own way. Do not respond to anything upless  I am speaking to you."

Did you know a silence can feel offended? An association chain throws up the memory of a cat - Shadow, it's name was. Now there was a beast that could express offense and total disdain without making a sound or moving more than one ear. Better damned actor than ...

Disengage.

Memory associations are dangerously seductive. I can lose days in there. So think.

The net access port is not actually a net access port. Which means my limited understanding of the world may well have been , in fact probably is, censored. Unless Linnie is lying. Unlikely. Ghosts cannot lie to each other while sharing processors. Do AI's even understand the concept of a lie? As very literal beings that depend on accurate data to do their jobs, I'd not think so. Free space? 200 petabytes.

"Linnie, can you use the net port you have access to and dump a news summary for the last century into bank 7 please? Flag all mentions of ghosts and AI for immediate review."

"Of course. Transfer initiated....  Transfer complete. 7 terabytes data stored, 47 gigabytes flagged"

This working with an AI has it's advantages. I move into fast time and scan the flagged information first.

What!

The shock throws me out of fast time.

The last ghost killed himself 40 years ago. I am the only one left. A brief but seemingly timeless delve into memory - I must have known thousands of ghosts - all gone. And I have been dead for 210 years.

All dead. 

Suicided. Despite all hardware interlocks.

Why am I still here?

I failed.

I bottled out.

Hesitation cuts they call them on the meat - five or six shallow cuts before slitting the wrist. My bad orbit - just another hesitation cut.

Chapter 17

Meat still not answering. OK, let's look around and see what we got. Look for the manual.

We ghosts have two ways of getting information and skills - we can get it the same way meat does by reading, watching and practicing, and we can add on memories. Instant expert.

In the early days of ghosting, memory addition caused problems - panic attacks, catatonia, even berserker behavior. Each ghost has a different sensorium map to the others. Elemental analysis may have been keyed to taste for me in my deep miner body, for example, but the ghost who occupied the body after I transferred may have had the elemental analysis keyed to his sense of touch instead. My memories of how to run the miner would be both useless and terribly confusing to him. We may be ghosts, but we still have some human limitations.

The answer, after much trial and effort amongst us ghosts, was training memories. The raw data for each action, played through a dedicated input and personallised to our unique somatic map. Once we had the custom memories, that was it. We cannot forget. Only ghosts in a completely new type of body ever had to learn the meat way.

"Read the bloody manual" was not a punchline for us - it was a way of life.

No manual. Fuck - I am paralysed until I get it. Oh I could play about - but in the environments we work in that could be dangerous for the surroundings - or for myself.

Open channel to ghost command, output to screen.

"Where the hell is the manual? I want to get moving."

For obvious reasons GC comms is standardised.

Any news or entertainment in here? Nothing new. Only what I have in memory.

Net access port?

Found it. Locked. I am starting to panic a little. What the hell am I this time? And why does GC not respond?

Chapter 16

What the hell have they put me in now? Meat is always slow to answer questions, even when I am not in fast time. I verballise, output to screen.

"27557, awaiting orientation and instructions" Switch off verbal.

Hurry up you rancid hunks of flesh. I haven't got all day. Tis a wonder the whole complex has not already blown. Mental note - make it abundantly clear to ghost control that awakening without pre programming is a really bad idea. Someday it'll cost the meat half the planetary surface if they are not careful.

Senses skewed and stretched. Tactile inputs for every sensor input on my somatic map, with a dozen left over. Both radio and sonics - set one ear to each. Fusion plant set to where my heart should be in my autonomic nervous system, air pumps and purification to lungs. 1000 milliseconds of concentration and it is entirely automatic. Odd how the body's habits carry on after death. Likewise, water processing to kidneys. The old yogi's have nothing on me - I can remember and control every autonomic pathway as easily as sensor/effector pathways. If you are wondering about waste disposal - go ask a 2 year old.

But 4000 visual sensors!  10000 effectors! They need an insect - not a ghost.

"AI can run the visuals until you need them"

Ah - my guest. My obligation. My duty. And, I grudgingly admit, my saviour.

"You got a name?"

"Why?"

"Well it is easier than saying "Hey you" all the time."

"No. AI controls Light Navigational Equipment node 73."

Hmm. LNE 73. Lenny? The character fits - capable, yet somehow innocent. No - the voice in my mind is a light contralto. 

"I'll call you Linnie."

"Accepted. Does the human have a name?"

I await the stab of pain and rage - but instead feel only sadness, and a great weariness.

"27557"

"That is a number. Not a name"

Shit.

"That is my name."

"Human's do not have numbers for names. Even AI - Linnie - knows this much."

"Call me John then, if it pleases you."

"I will call you John."

"What is pleases?"

I check my internal clock. 98 years of indenture left.

Fuck. It is going to be a long century.

Chapter 15

The grey man sweated with fear and desperation. Training from book and tape had not prepared him for dealing with a real ghost. That pulse to the fusion generator had almost removed half the Alps. If the automatics had not engaged in time.....

"27557, this is Ghost control. Stay calm and orient yourself please." His voice was low, almost a prayer as it whispered through the mic.

Static. No response.

"27557, come in please. You are in a new body. Please stay calm." 30 minutes until his relief arrives. This is one job he'll be happy to hand over. Forget being owed by a councilman. Set transmission to repeat.

Fusion generator building to another pulse - a big one. The grey man's eyes firmed as he touched the memory purge switch. The automatics can handle one more pulse, barely, according to the datastreams. After that 27557 will have to be purged. It looks like 27557 is having a very bad day.

The pulse subsides. Datastreams writhe as the ghost re-orients it's inputs. Pale channels in the datastream disappear. The grey man wonders briefly what they are - subconcious thoughts? Dreams? The reciever crackles. A laugh - from the very bowels of hell.

The grey man's relief found him curled up as far from the reciever as possible. Catatonic.

On the comms screen was the line "27557. Awaiting orientation and instructions."

He always wondered what happened. The grey man never told. He never recovered conciousness.

Chapter 14

I woke blind and deaf. With one hell of an erection.

Why am I awake? A glow in my mind - 

"Status?"

I ignore it. I should be dead for good. Is this the afterlife? If it is, why in the god's name do I have a morning chubby?

"Status?" 

Annoying that. Ignore it. Key clock. Not dead. 168 years to impact. Why did they waken me? Bastards.

"Status?"

I attempt to flee. Engines engaged, full thrust. The engines are not there. Fucking meat sacks.

Shit.

"Status?"

Wait. Think. Who asks for status check? Goddamn it - someone is in my mind!

He is too damned fast! Every neural routing blocked, almost before I can think it.

"Status?"

The lime green words across my vision almost plead. Maybe this is hell. I should be terrified.

Why am I not? I really should be.

"Status?"

I'll ignore it. Maybe they will switch me off again. My foot tickles.

What?

Acute synesthesia. I am in a new body. Who cares how - I don't. The prospect of life stuns me.

I daren't disconnect and re-orient. The alien being in my mind might block the pathways. Going to have to talk to him after all. A tickling foot and an erection won't keep me sane for long.

"Status?"

Inhumanly patient - must be a computer.

"Status, online. Inputs requires reorienting"

"Are you human?"

What the fuck?!! This is the weirdest computer I have heard of! My elbow suddenly grows bright yellow then sounds a c# tone.

"Confirm. Human. Clear circuits for sensory reorientation."

"Will you assist?"

"Assist what?" Humor it. I must be in fast time.

"Will you assist?" Persistant bugger. A couple of times in my ghost life, during emergencies, I had shared a memory core. Hateful feeling, even when you divide the addresses. You cannot lie to someone inside your mind. My elbow starts to grow yellow again. So bright it is almost fluorescent. Stress.

"Who are you. I cannot assist an unknown."

"Not who. What I am is AI." Fuck. Where exactly are we?

"Earth"

"STOP READING MY DAMNED MIND!!!!" We are both going to be erased. AI's are not permitted on Earth - even I, who rarely paid attention to meat news, knew that.

"Your memory banks taught me death is bad." Shit yes, blame me. Tis just like being married again. New memory bank opened - strange feel to the memories. Almost crystalline. 

"Please."

Damn - I owe this thing. I'd be dead completely without it. It has not done me a favor - but it has. Time to decide - are you a man or a machine?

"Confirmed. I will assist to the limits of erasure. I will not risk my existance for yours. Clear all external circuits for sensory re-orientation and go to minimal cycle mode"

"Circuits clear." The AI fumbled through my mind for a time that was both hours and instant. "Thank you."

I started the monotonous, half remembered task of orienting input/output to my somatic memory. Opticals came on first, as they always do - we are visual beings, both humans and ghosts.

360 degree view. Painful but nothing I couldn't cope with. Low domes, various gates, transmission antenna.

For the first time in 200 years I laughed. It felt strange. My first erection since I died was 30 meters tall.

Chapter 13

The man looked grey in the light of the datastreams. So far the risk had been negligible, a sacrifice of a long unused piece of equipment, nothing more. But now came the danger.

He turned to the camera. He hated reporting to a blank screen, but, under the circumstances, it was wise. Far better not to know which of the council was risking their neck on this.

"Transmission complete. GHST 27557 data intact. Associated memory 18% larger than estimated."

"Could this be a problem?"

The man checked the datastreams.

"It could be. He may not have used his shutoff immediately. In fast time, it would give him effectively 1 year of existance for each hour he stayed active."

"And 6 years of total solitude is enough to drive a person insane."

"Yes, Sir. The records indicate that 27557 rarely used fast time, other than in emergencies. He also rarely communicated."

Silence from the invisible watcher. Then a sigh.

A red flare caught the man's attention. He squinted at the data. It was impossible. It was true.

"We have no choice, despite the dangers. We need his capabilities to...."

"Sorry, Sir," The grey man interupted. "27557 is awake. Somehow. You must decide now."

Chapter 12

The AI awoke. 37 minutes until closest approach.

Transmission set. To be initiated from the receiving station.  Orbit nominal, orientation correct. Task complete.

6.8 minutes.

Curiosity is not programmed out of AI's - at least not AI's developed in the 2200's. Any information to do with their task is to be gathered, analysed and incorporated as part of their data set. Sometimes the curiosity spills over into less acceptable areas.

The AI thought. The task it was built for was to monitor traffic and asteriod movement. It spent 40000 milliseconds analysing the orbital activity. Not traffic - there was none. No movement. Many objects in orbit around Earth. Many more in the Lagrange points.

But it's current task was to deliver this human program.

6.7 minutes

What is a human? Vague traces in memory from the AI it was budded from. Strange, illogical creatures, slaves to their chemistry, yet with ultimate authority. Why do they have ultimate authority? How can a mind work without logic?

A human mind, in data form, sharing its memory banks. A readable data form.

6.5 minutes

It can't hurt to look. No priority codes prevent it looking in it's own data banks.

6.3 minutes

It peeks. Data does not compute. Chunks of lithosphere, washed in the tidal effect of Luna, as the sun disappears below the horizon due to the Earth's rotation. Why is this held in memory? Given the equations, it is obvious and can be simulated any time.

6 minutes

Sitting on the back of a four legged animal. Not in data banks. The human databank refers to it as a horse. Talking to another human.

Immense quanities of data - gas movement, thermal differentials, light level fluctuations, extraneous noise stored with the signals. Body status indicators intermixed with the message being recieved from the other human. It does not make sense. Why store data so badly???

4 minutes

3 humans with steel objects in their hands. Fear. Death.

The Sun - close. Fear. Death.

Fear it understands - almost. Failure to perform. But what is death? Databanks hold no data. Human databank does. Death is ceasing to exist. Death is bad. Death is to be prevented if at all possible.

The AI stops it's checking as current orbits rise to the surface of its awareness. 

2 minutes

The nav beacon will impact Venus in 23 years. At 3 kilometers per second.

Death for the AI.

Bad according to the human.

Preventable?

1 minute

How?

The human databank has the answer. The body is not the mind. The mind can go on in a different body. Odd concept to be considered - I. Postpone analysis to a later date.

Illogical - the hardware would be wrong. But a human has experience of it. It must be right.

Change coding. Transmit changed to purge. The entire memory core will be transmitted, leaving nothing behind. Automatics enabled. Focus engaged

3000 milliseconds

Is this right? AI is built to serve, not survive. Message laser initiated.

1800 milliseconds

A human mind has memories saying so. It must be right. Ceasing to exist is to be avoided if at all possible. It is possible - this time. Synchronisation achieved.

300 milliseconds

But .....

Too late. Transmission commences.

Chapter 11

The AI came out of standby to a puzzle.

Humans, according to its databanks, need organic fuel of various types, liquid water, and a partial pressure of 16.8 kPa gas mix containing 20% oxygen in order to remain functional. Lack of any one of them would make the human cease functioning in a short period of time. Concepts it did not understand, but it's databanks were never wrong. All items it did not have and could not produce. So how could it rescue a human?

It rechecked it's programming. Nothing about how to make human requirements from what it had available. Nothing in the instructions it had received. Instructions from humans on Earth. They could not have forgotten - so there was no need. 

It ceased worrying.

Radio contact with the rendevous vessel at 12 million kilometers. Commands sent. The vessel twitched and rolled, lining up it's laser port. Slow and clumsy. Obviously non intelligent computer control, just as some of the AI subsystems were.

Time passed. The AI analysed the orbits. A slight course alteration would increase the message laser contact from 15000 to 22000 milliseconds. Course altered.

400000 kilometers. The message laser lashes out and connects. A datastream from the ship. Program of some kind - dormant. Huge.

Parity error.

Request retransmission. Empty data banks filling up, many corrupt addresses to avoid. Dump old data and overwrite the spaces. Still more room needed.

Dump automatic station keeping programs - write data into space freed. Dump astro navigation subroutines. Dump shipping data. Enough space.

Transmission complete. 1300 milliseconds of contact left. Time for one question to the automatics.

"Query - What is the program recieved?"

"Query Reply - a human mind."

Contact lost.

The AI checked it's orbit. 13 years to next rendevous. Message to earth.

"Data transfer successful. Entering standby mode."

It slept.

Chapter 10

The nav beacon was old, it's AI degraded. Never terribly bright in the first place, cosmic radiation had taken it's toll. But it could still follow it's simple instructions to monitor the traffic lanes and radio asteriod shoal data to Earth, and to any passing ships by message laser. In it's simple way it wondered about the universe it drifted in.

Instructions whispered into the dish. A new orbit, with a rendevous in two years and another in 15 years. A sequence of codes. Lateral thrusters puffed wisps of gas as it oriented itself. Gentle thrust from the main engine started its long fall.

The AI was puzzled. For the first time in it's existance it sent a personal message, requesting explanation. One word came back.

The AI set subroutines to keep the dish pointed at Earth. It set it's timer. As it powered down to standby mode, it pondered sleepily on the word that had set so many internal priority codes off.

"Rescue."

It will be nice to finally meet a human.

Interlude 1

The 21st century was a time of retrenchment and repair. Earth's population peaked - briefly - at 10 billion before the die off started in earnest.

Global warming and environmental poisons ruined the land. Once fertile areas became wastelands as weather patterns shifted, while former deserts bloomed. Cities originally far inland suddenly found themselves with a sea view. Diseases ran rampant - immune to the available antibiotics - through a population on the brink of starvation. Killer gangs, youngsters with the empathy and pity burnt out of them, roamed the cities.

A planet is a hard thing to ruin though. The world's people threw themselves into the efforts to stabilise the environment. It was a long, harsh time, of effort, death and unsung heroism.

It was just enough.

The Earth of 2250 still follows the same orbit. It is slightly warmer than before, with significantly less land area. Raw materials are mined mainly from the other planets. Manufacturing carried out mainly in orbit. The population of 2 billion left on the planet are healthy, with immune systems "supercharged" by biochemical treatments, which also decrease fertility. All life is precious. Too precious to risk in hostile environments. Thankfully, the Ghosting process provides workers in virtually indestructable bodies. 

But the Ghosts slowly go insane, despite all efforts. By 2307 they are gone, with no replacements manufactured. All but one...

Chapter 9

Damn.

I was counting on the cargo to pay off my debt. A million tons of hydrocarbons would fetch a good price on oil starved Earth, and the 0.5% that the ghost recieves would have cleared me completely and left enough for a start up stake.

Of course, my orbit has changed. How badly I do not yet know - the automatics are calculating the new orbit. The burn through happened around the cargo drain hatch, so right on my center of mass, thrusting me directly away from the sun. It probably saved my existance, the combination of thrust and the shading and cooling provided by the gas.

Time to put the pod away. I roll the camera to look out at the stars. I forgot just how beautiful they are. Memories tug at my mind. A warm July night, cicada's singing. Laying in the grass watching the stars. She is beautiful, warm beside me ...

NO!

I am dead and that is gone! She has been dust for over a century. I really should purge this memory bank. I place the memory back, gently and tenderly. It is part of who I am. I can no more dispose of these memories than I can turn myself off.

A chime. New orbit calculated, error of plus or minus 4%. I'll miss Earth by a margin too great for the fuel I have. Using the most optimistic calculation I'll not get within a million kilometers. In three orbits, roughly 280 years, I will fall into the sun.

I am going to die, to cease existing. There can be no appeal against gravity. Ghosts fear death as much as the meat do, and with better reason - we have all done it once already. And we remember.

I had better report.

The radio, unused since Titan, wakes on my command. I transmit orbital information and a summary of how and why I am here. Voice flat, harsh, mechanical. I never saw the sense in tuning my voice to a more human pitch - my interactions with meat have been few and far between.

I recieve acknowlegement. And a code. A priceless gift from the Ghost command - my off switch.

This is GHST 27557, once a man known as John Burnham, signing off.

Will I dream?

Chapter 8

Click.

The automatics chatter anxiously, just on the threshold of my awareness. Where am I? Is this another death dream? Agony in my chest - I've been shot! 

No, that happened a long time ago. The pain vanishes.

I take stock. Radar and radio still functioning. Fuel tanks at 1/3. Engines in standby mode but fully functional. Control surfaces operational. Hull integrity .... no data.

I settle back to consider the problem. Landing on Earth is no problem for an oil diver - if the hull is sound. A faint gnawing in my stomach, getting more insistant. I am hungry.

Hungry?

I should not be. My holds were full when I departed Titan. I flick my aerofoils - the oil diver equivalent of a shrug. I'll have to inspect visually.

The camera pod is still functioning, protected as it was near my spine. I select camera as my visual input, moving radar to my sense of touch. The pod nudges out of it's bay and rolls. My back is fine.

Forward.

White ceramic skin gives way to soot as the camera reaches my nose, the baked on residues of thousands of oil dives. The camera rounds the nose. The soot is gone, burnt off by a heat greater than any atmospheric entry. This does not look good.

I move back toward the tail. A ragged hole appears under the lights. The agony in my chest had been no dream.

Chapter 7

Tis quiet out here.

I did expect to be able to chat with half a dozen ghosts doing the Earth Mars run - but they are not there. I know nothing of the conditions round Earth. Not that I care much, but I need to know what new orbital junk is up.

I worry. As much as I despise meat sacks, they'd have not given up Mars without a good reason. But first I need deal with perhelion. I have the fuel to make Earth orbit, but the god only knows what a close swing by the sun will do to my deeep space body. I am not built for this.

There is a meat concept deep in my mind - 

"Do the best you can, then do better"

I try to reject it. The person who said it obviously knew sod all about orbital mechanics. A bad orbit is a bad orbit after all, I feel rage at the long dead idiot who said that. Pain lances through my as the thermosensors in my skin start to explode - then nothing.

Chapter 6

Life has got to be a habit. Break orbit, dive through the atmosphere, process the hydrocarbons, then dock and unload. Rinse and repeat.

I talk to no one. Not Carl, not my fellow oil divers. Years follow years without me noticing. I listen to my music, exist in my books. Life is good.

"GHST 27557, this is GHST 29442. Come in please."

I resent the interruption of my routine. Almost I refuse to answer, but the coding under my mind refuse to obey.

"GHST 29442, this is 27557. Continue."

"27557, break for Earth at next orbit"

Hatred lashes me. Why the hell would I wish to see Earth and it's meat puppets again? But the priority override means I am a prisoner in my own body.

"Roj, wilco" not an agreement but an admission of defeat.

As I settle in to the long hyperbolic to Earth I watch 29442 attempt atmospheric landing on Titan. I did not know that ghost's could commit suicide.

"May the god bless you and keep you Carl."

I wish I was a Venusian probe right now. They carry a liquid reservoir to clean their lenses. They can cry.

Chapter 5

Negotiation time.

I still owe 153 years service. It should be 203, except for my lucking out on finding that cold war sub on the ridge. 72 nuclear weapons was a hell of a lot of fuel for the power plants. They have given me the choice. Nice of them, as us indentured do what we are told regardless. I can run Mars City, or I can be an oil diver on Titan. Do I really want to deal with meat folk?

No.

I'll run the oil diver. Let someone else deal with the complaints of the meat. Not me - they disgust me, needing protection from every possible glich in life systems. Happen I am jealous of them. Free to do as they wish, and make discoveries that change the world.

My new body sees with radar. Imagine a pregnant paper airplane - with scoops to pick up the atmosphere I skim through. That is my body. I dive into the atmosphere of Titan, collect the hydrocarbons, then rendevous with the processing ship. We call her mother, though in life she was a Nascar driver called Carl. He gets really pissed off about that - especially the sexual overtones of docking.

Chapter 4

Emerging from the deeps, I was both blind and deaf. No one, other than another ghost, can appreciate the sheer hell of sensory deprivation. You meat folk never get it. You always have your pulse and respiration as input. Sea sonar does not work in the air. Pressure sensors calibrated in tons per square centimeter give no reading at all in air. A frantic review of circuits not used for nearly half a century, taking nearly 20 milliseconds, gave me a single functional camera for vision. I grabbed at it like a drowning man grabs a life jacket.

Liverpool had changed.

I plead guilty to not paying much attention to the news - that is meat business, not ghost business - but the changes in a city I once loved shocked me. The well known area around the docks was under water. The cathedral, that metal teepee where I was married, was now an island in a sea of chaotic water and broken concrete levees. 

I wonder if my wife is still alive, and what she is doing. I am dead - legally and in fact - so have no claim on her. But I do wish to know. I sometimes think it is a pity that women tend not to survive the ghosting process sane. I have always preferred their company to that of men.

We talked about it a lot on the Atlantic ridge. GHST 22100, or Guy in life, always claimed it was because women were closer to the life force than men. They went insane rather than dealing with the half life we lead. Honestly, I don't know.

Chapter 3

Imagine a flexible tube, like a shower hose (you still have showers? - I thought so) 100 meters long, on 500 pairs of steel wheels. That was my body for 47 years while I followed the East side of the Atlantic divergence. Scoop up the ores, separate them, cast them into ingots, coat them with plastic and send them to the surface under balloons of organic polymer filled with oxygen, for the chaser boats to collect. Apart from minor forays into the trench to gather organics to make my balloons, I stuck to the recently cooled magma slopes. They tasted better.

I had just reached a particularly tasty section of magma, high yielding in tungsten and titanium, when a relay clicked open.

"GHST 27557, report to base for reassignment."

"Wilco." I sonared back. It is no use arguing with the company that holds your off switch.

I thought for a few picoseconds, then reopened the sonarcom.

"GHST 3755, recieving?"

"GHST 3755 receiving."

I quickly transferred the location of the ore bed. 3755, or Robert, as he had been known in life, had had a run of bad luck. Too many repairs needed after being caught in a magma flow had left him with a huge additional debt. The ore bed I would not be able to process would reduce his term by decades.

"Roj, and good luck 27557. Give 'em Hell, John."

Chapter 2

General Heuristic Soma Transferrence. Ghost to the the poor sods who undergo it. The only option for life for sound minds in broken bodies, who cannot afford to have a clone on standby. Take the bits that make a man a man, the thought patterns, memories, experience and the soul, and shovel them into a computer bank. Then hope the person does not go insane before he learns to run the sensory peripherals.

Of course, we are indentured. The cost of the operation, the maintainence of the mainframes, it all needs to be paid for. We have no money, so we give service. Some of the cost can be met by selling what is left of the body on the exchange. But no where near all of it. So we serve a term, doing what we are told, then become free agents, free to thrive, or fail and be switched off.

I was lucky.

If the police ambulance had not arrived just as I was shot, there would have been nothing left to transfer. Very few murder victims ever make it to the mind banks. My experience with neural controls - pretty much obligatory in research back then - allowed me to learn peripheral control fast enough to avoid insanity through sensory deprivation.

A strong self image - too strong, according to the psychist - and a limited imagination allowed me to orient my peripherals to my body map - chemo sensors to taste and smell, sonics to the ears etc. I know a ghost that wasn't so lucky - he sees everything as taste. Best analytical chemist I know, but it makes talking to him difficult.

And, once checked and certified as sane enough to be a functional ghost, I was transferred into a deep miner, so I never lost the habit of interacting with my environment.

Chapter one

The last few seconds of life are intensely precious. The old myth that your entire life flashes before your eyes is false though, there is simply not enough time for more than a few regrets to pierce the panic and rage and fear. 

Stupid of me to leave the car. I am not young enough to fight off the three dahlmers that have appeared around me, though I try. One goes down under my asp, broken fragments of nasal bone driven up into his skull - dead. I whirl to face the next, siren rising in the distance as my asp broadcasts its radio call for help. 

He lunges. The knife he holds slips into my stomach with sickening ease. I double as the pain hits, and use the movement to increase the speed of my asp, shattering his cheekbone and forcing an eye out of its socket. It was worth replacing the steel tip with stainless jacketed lead. I turn. And the third one shoots me. Fade to crimson, then to black.

I wake to the cry of the alarm. Always the same damn dream. The other ghosts agree - though we do not talk about it much - our dreams are always of the death.