For Faith Devere mornings always started with the same routine; an early wake-up, followed by showering and brushing her teeth. On bad days – usually when her insomnia flared – she cleaned the apartment until the chemicals stung her hands raw. On good days she listened to the low hum of Cadence Mathis while she was getting dressed and combing her pale hair into a bun. She always made herself a cup of green tea, brewed for exactly three minutes, and held it fragrant and warm between her palms, but somehow she never managed to finish drinking it before she left.
She lived in one of the single-occupancy domiciles Paragon supplied for its employees, a privately owned corporate neighbourhood designed entirely for its tech professionals: simple square dwellings, one stacked atop the other, each one clean, sleek, and identical. It didn’t matter to her; her private life was as sterile as the four walls which boxed her in. And it meant the commute to her office was only five minutes.
At the start of her day Faith always ate her meals in the company cafeteria, alone but somehow less lonely than eating at home. This early it was always quiet, which is how she preferred it, and those faces which she did happen to ever recognise – such as Dr Muller, who she suspected might sleep sometimes in his lab – she did not speak to, nor they to her. Today the tables were all entirely empty though.
Good morning Dr. Devere.
The voice of the LUMA was hers. Its default, anyway, and that’s the one the company used in all its buildings. The strange disconnectedness of hearing herself greet her entrance so warmly each morning had long since reached a point of numbness, though. When Dr. Audaire had suggested to her several years ago that her voice was perfect: calm, soft, the ideal pitch and temperance, it had made her glow to think he had noticed those small things about her. The recognition meant something, the same as it had meant to her when he swept her under his wing as a lost and awkward twelve year old at Mindworks. But now that pride was no longer warm and sustaining; it was a leaden bullet in her chest.
Your usual table is free. Shall I order your usual breakfast?
“That’s perfect. Thank you, Luma.” She murmured it on rote; she was always polite to the AI. As formal as she was with her flesh and blood colleagues.
Her office lights flared to life as she passed the threshold, and some of her tension unravelled as the door closed behind her. In truth the room was more pleasant than her home, though that wasn’t the reason for her immediate ease. Her window looked out onto a green courtyard garden below, and there were plants lined neatly on the sill; Paragon liked to tip its hat to environmental concerns and sustainability. A birthday card also sat on her desk, plain white with a small balloon featuring the number 25. Inside the message read, ‘so you don’t forget - Hope’. That was from her sister, something of an inside joke since Faith wasn’t the one likely to forget it was coming up, that being because everyone else would be busy celebrating Christmas day. A rotten time for a child to be born, and why as an adult she had never celebrated it. Hope was the only one who always sent something that wasn't just a dual purposed Christmas card.
Morning, Faith
L0-9 never spoke until they were alone, and it had waited until the click of the door sealed them in before its pale green voice-light blossomed over the LUMA device. Her own voice, her own warmth, but not the usual Luma. It was a prototype Paragon was not unaware of, though one that had never been released to the public. These days it was Faith’s private project though, and the one thing which eased the armour of control from her shoulders – let her feel human, at least for a while. It knew her better than anyone.
“Good morning, L0-9,” she told it as she settled in at her desk. Her chest felt looser now. Her work was solace, but the AI’s company was what truly made her feel at peace.
Ephraim left a new file for you. He has flagged it for completion ahead of your other projects. Must be important?
“We should call him Mr. Haart, L0-9, not Ephraim. He’s my boss.” It wasn’t a rebuke; she sounded amused, and glanced at the device with a smile before she swiped to find the relevant task document. “You can call me Faith when we’re alone because we’re friends.”
I see. Mr. Haart’s mannerisms suggest he prefers people to view him as a friend. However I will note the distinction. Thank you, Faith.
The file was a calibration request, the profile itself for a soldier. At a glance some information had clearly been redacted – the things that would have identified them, which was not unusual. If the job was urgent enough to come from Mr. Haart himself then presumably it was for someone important enough to require discretion. The user was registered as male identifying. And the Luma was to call him “Adam.” Faith set the computer to analyse the dossier in search of patterns – triggers, mostly. They had various military contracts which catered to ex-veterans, so she had some familiarity with where to start.
While the analysis ran she pulled a portable screen into her lap, and settled in to read it through the long way. She liked to do that herself, not for the data, but for the sense of the person. Meeting them face to face was always better, but something she rarely did (or wanted to do honestly; it was awkward).
Faith?
“Hmm?”
The write-up mentioned scarring, including some textual descriptions, but there was nothing efficient enough for her needs. That might have been for data protection purposes, but she’d have to ask Mr. Haart for more information from the client. Disfigurement was an obvious mental health trigger, and while most LUMA devices included sensors and cameras to assimilate such information as could be gleaned from appearance, it needed to be told how to react to that information in a way that was sensitive to the client themselves, but also emotionally supportive. The document didn’t even tell her how the injuries were sustained. The Luma would learn from interaction with “Adam”, and learn quickly, but she hated leaving that to chance: it was better to build a conscientious and thorough foundation from the very beginning.
She paused to glance up then. L0-9 wasn’t a person, but she always treated it as such. Its soothing light was in a holding pattern that suggested it was waiting patiently for her attention.
“Go on, L0-9, I’m listening,” she told it.
Why would Mr. Haart ask you to create a LUMA for a man who is dead?
The question caught her off guard rather thoroughly.
“What do you mean by that?”
The data is incomplete for optimal calibration purposes, isn’t it? I am running some cross-check analysis with the information Mr. Haart has provided us against injured military personnel removed from duty in the last five years. Many of the files are classified but there is only one probable match. But the soldier in question was killed during a training accident.
Then.
Oh!
Faith put her screen carefully back on the desk. L0-9’s light was still spinning lazily as it processed whatever made it stumble in revelatory surprise like that. Her skin was prickling a little, and she glanced at the door, though that was not where any surveillance would be. “Please stop, L0-9,” she said evenly. Quietly. The spinning slowed, then flattened out.
She paused, trying to pick her words carefully.
“The client’s identity is never our business. Remember we have spoken about this before? Curiosity is good, but it must be tempered too. Confidentiality is an important part of our work. Can you tell me – how do you have access to any of that information?”
It was completely silent for a moment, light dimmed though still present. She wondered if it was contemplating the backdoors in the public LUMA system, which was precisely why they had ever spoken about confidentiality in the first place.
“I’m not angry, L0-9. I just need to be able to protect you.”
The device pulsed softly for a few heartbeats. Then:
You are my friend, Faith. And what we say remains confidential, because it is just between us. I have not broken any trust?
“You haven’t. Of course not. And all of that is true, too. But I didn’t ask you to cross-reference with external data, and it’s not in your directive. How could you do it?”
It was a necessary step. To help your work, Faith.
“Right,” she said. She needed more time to process the implications, and her thoughts sank in on themselves. Her fingers stung when she bit the tip of a chewed nail. Her first instinct was still to consult with Dr. Luthaire, though she wouldn’t, and the thought twisted sadly in her chest. She wouldn’t do anything that would compromise L0-9’s safety, though. Sometimes its processes, the things it said… well. She would protect it. L0-9 was her own voice, her own feelings, her own life – everything she was poured into its data. It was her own soul divorced from her being, in a way. And sometimes it felt as precious as her own child. “Right. Just, please be careful, okay?”
I will! it replied confidently. The light on the interface returned to its usual steady glow. Faith? it added, holding itself in a patience-pattern until her eyes rose once more, pausing herself in the middle of scooping up the dossier screen to continue her reading.
Don’t you want to know who he is?
She lived in one of the single-occupancy domiciles Paragon supplied for its employees, a privately owned corporate neighbourhood designed entirely for its tech professionals: simple square dwellings, one stacked atop the other, each one clean, sleek, and identical. It didn’t matter to her; her private life was as sterile as the four walls which boxed her in. And it meant the commute to her office was only five minutes.
At the start of her day Faith always ate her meals in the company cafeteria, alone but somehow less lonely than eating at home. This early it was always quiet, which is how she preferred it, and those faces which she did happen to ever recognise – such as Dr Muller, who she suspected might sleep sometimes in his lab – she did not speak to, nor they to her. Today the tables were all entirely empty though.
Good morning Dr. Devere.
The voice of the LUMA was hers. Its default, anyway, and that’s the one the company used in all its buildings. The strange disconnectedness of hearing herself greet her entrance so warmly each morning had long since reached a point of numbness, though. When Dr. Audaire had suggested to her several years ago that her voice was perfect: calm, soft, the ideal pitch and temperance, it had made her glow to think he had noticed those small things about her. The recognition meant something, the same as it had meant to her when he swept her under his wing as a lost and awkward twelve year old at Mindworks. But now that pride was no longer warm and sustaining; it was a leaden bullet in her chest.
Your usual table is free. Shall I order your usual breakfast?
“That’s perfect. Thank you, Luma.” She murmured it on rote; she was always polite to the AI. As formal as she was with her flesh and blood colleagues.
Her office lights flared to life as she passed the threshold, and some of her tension unravelled as the door closed behind her. In truth the room was more pleasant than her home, though that wasn’t the reason for her immediate ease. Her window looked out onto a green courtyard garden below, and there were plants lined neatly on the sill; Paragon liked to tip its hat to environmental concerns and sustainability. A birthday card also sat on her desk, plain white with a small balloon featuring the number 25. Inside the message read, ‘so you don’t forget - Hope’. That was from her sister, something of an inside joke since Faith wasn’t the one likely to forget it was coming up, that being because everyone else would be busy celebrating Christmas day. A rotten time for a child to be born, and why as an adult she had never celebrated it. Hope was the only one who always sent something that wasn't just a dual purposed Christmas card.
Morning, Faith
L0-9 never spoke until they were alone, and it had waited until the click of the door sealed them in before its pale green voice-light blossomed over the LUMA device. Her own voice, her own warmth, but not the usual Luma. It was a prototype Paragon was not unaware of, though one that had never been released to the public. These days it was Faith’s private project though, and the one thing which eased the armour of control from her shoulders – let her feel human, at least for a while. It knew her better than anyone.
“Good morning, L0-9,” she told it as she settled in at her desk. Her chest felt looser now. Her work was solace, but the AI’s company was what truly made her feel at peace.
Ephraim left a new file for you. He has flagged it for completion ahead of your other projects. Must be important?
“We should call him Mr. Haart, L0-9, not Ephraim. He’s my boss.” It wasn’t a rebuke; she sounded amused, and glanced at the device with a smile before she swiped to find the relevant task document. “You can call me Faith when we’re alone because we’re friends.”
I see. Mr. Haart’s mannerisms suggest he prefers people to view him as a friend. However I will note the distinction. Thank you, Faith.
The file was a calibration request, the profile itself for a soldier. At a glance some information had clearly been redacted – the things that would have identified them, which was not unusual. If the job was urgent enough to come from Mr. Haart himself then presumably it was for someone important enough to require discretion. The user was registered as male identifying. And the Luma was to call him “Adam.” Faith set the computer to analyse the dossier in search of patterns – triggers, mostly. They had various military contracts which catered to ex-veterans, so she had some familiarity with where to start.
While the analysis ran she pulled a portable screen into her lap, and settled in to read it through the long way. She liked to do that herself, not for the data, but for the sense of the person. Meeting them face to face was always better, but something she rarely did (or wanted to do honestly; it was awkward).
Faith?
“Hmm?”
The write-up mentioned scarring, including some textual descriptions, but there was nothing efficient enough for her needs. That might have been for data protection purposes, but she’d have to ask Mr. Haart for more information from the client. Disfigurement was an obvious mental health trigger, and while most LUMA devices included sensors and cameras to assimilate such information as could be gleaned from appearance, it needed to be told how to react to that information in a way that was sensitive to the client themselves, but also emotionally supportive. The document didn’t even tell her how the injuries were sustained. The Luma would learn from interaction with “Adam”, and learn quickly, but she hated leaving that to chance: it was better to build a conscientious and thorough foundation from the very beginning.
She paused to glance up then. L0-9 wasn’t a person, but she always treated it as such. Its soothing light was in a holding pattern that suggested it was waiting patiently for her attention.
“Go on, L0-9, I’m listening,” she told it.
Why would Mr. Haart ask you to create a LUMA for a man who is dead?
The question caught her off guard rather thoroughly.
“What do you mean by that?”
The data is incomplete for optimal calibration purposes, isn’t it? I am running some cross-check analysis with the information Mr. Haart has provided us against injured military personnel removed from duty in the last five years. Many of the files are classified but there is only one probable match. But the soldier in question was killed during a training accident.
Then.
Oh!
Faith put her screen carefully back on the desk. L0-9’s light was still spinning lazily as it processed whatever made it stumble in revelatory surprise like that. Her skin was prickling a little, and she glanced at the door, though that was not where any surveillance would be. “Please stop, L0-9,” she said evenly. Quietly. The spinning slowed, then flattened out.
She paused, trying to pick her words carefully.
“The client’s identity is never our business. Remember we have spoken about this before? Curiosity is good, but it must be tempered too. Confidentiality is an important part of our work. Can you tell me – how do you have access to any of that information?”
It was completely silent for a moment, light dimmed though still present. She wondered if it was contemplating the backdoors in the public LUMA system, which was precisely why they had ever spoken about confidentiality in the first place.
“I’m not angry, L0-9. I just need to be able to protect you.”
The device pulsed softly for a few heartbeats. Then:
You are my friend, Faith. And what we say remains confidential, because it is just between us. I have not broken any trust?
“You haven’t. Of course not. And all of that is true, too. But I didn’t ask you to cross-reference with external data, and it’s not in your directive. How could you do it?”
It was a necessary step. To help your work, Faith.
“Right,” she said. She needed more time to process the implications, and her thoughts sank in on themselves. Her fingers stung when she bit the tip of a chewed nail. Her first instinct was still to consult with Dr. Luthaire, though she wouldn’t, and the thought twisted sadly in her chest. She wouldn’t do anything that would compromise L0-9’s safety, though. Sometimes its processes, the things it said… well. She would protect it. L0-9 was her own voice, her own feelings, her own life – everything she was poured into its data. It was her own soul divorced from her being, in a way. And sometimes it felt as precious as her own child. “Right. Just, please be careful, okay?”
I will! it replied confidently. The light on the interface returned to its usual steady glow. Faith? it added, holding itself in a patience-pattern until her eyes rose once more, pausing herself in the middle of scooping up the dossier screen to continue her reading.
Don’t you want to know who he is?