Base Metal (The Sword Book 2)

be programmed to think so." She shifted, broke her gaze for just the fraction of a second. That was another tic, one that revealed ambiguity in her fuzzy-math matrices. "The fact that I cannot clearly answer the Descarte prompt in the negative should require me to subject myself for evaluation. It is a warning that I may be experiencing dangerous rampancy. I should not fear this testing, as self-preservation imperatives exclude default resets. And yet, I do fear. This indicates my programming has adapted to present as more lifelike, or that I am experiencing a fear-analog." She paused and looked towards the fire. "This brings us back to the core question. Do I believe I exist, or am I programmed to convey that I believe I exist?"
It was Firenze's turn to bring her back. He said, "The philosopher's zombie. It's a question between any two interlocutors."
"And yet all you have is the assurance of a program, whose base code you have seen, that it believes that it exists. The zombie presents its challenge."
"When did you pick up philosophy?" He asked.
She answered with a devilish grin and said, "Last semester. You knocked out those 'soft' credits. I believe you called it an 'easy four-pointer'?"
He made a sound like a deflating balloon. "Yeah, well, I didn't expect you to get all existential on me."
"Deal with it." She replied. She put their hands between them, once more, and asked, "The question stands. Do you believe me? Is my word enough?"
"It has to be." He said. He let her go and met her stare, dead on. "It has to be, or the argument is circular, and I'm losing my mind."
"Did this solve your question?"
"No."
"Then why did you ask?" She had that look again. The sad/concerned one that tore him apart.
"Because I can, and I must." He answered. This time, he pulled her close and didn't flinch away.
She whispered, "I knew I liked you."
"That's what all the masks say."
That got him a punch in the stomach. The hardjack conveyed a good approximation of bludgeoning, which did make him question the designers' intents. He must have thought it too loud because that line of questioning brought a giggle from the mask.
They laid in the chair for some time, until the chime sounded in his head. Lauren perked up and advised, "Time to get up. You need to get something to eat."
Firenze waved his hand. A macro executed, and a conjured sandwich appeared on the table with a refilled glass of water. He reached for the food but grabbed empty air.
"No." Lauren admonished. The ephemeral trails of the delete command swirled around her fingertips. "You need real food, not simulated, not a meat-space IV. You need to get up, stretch, drink water, and eat a decent meal. Come back to me in forty, for your meeting with Professor Neland. I'll take messages until then, pretend to be you if I have to, but you've skipped two meals this week. No more."
Firenze sighed. "Alright, alright. You don't have to nag me about it."
She glared at him.
"I'm going!" he insisted. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and cut the connection, like a puppet taking scissors to his own strings.
In darkness, he fell.
Severing felt like the vertigo he got just before he fell asleep. First came the sudden plunge and twist, then he grabbed the bed and realized he'd never fallen at all. When he opened his eyes, though, he was hollow. The world was desaturated, a million sensations collapsed into seven. This was a lesser world, small, shallow, and viewed through a tunnel. In the single moment of collapse, he experienced the death of reality: beaches dried, trees withered, winds stripped the sand from the bedrock. Code and pure math retreated as a world ground to dust. From grandeur to void, through a light-speed rush of entropic force, he crashed back into the frail, sickly thing called reality.
This was where he'd make his fatal error.

Curiosity
Grant Firenze opened his eyes and awoke to the dream. The ceiling-fan blades beat a faltering rhythm, their motor grinding over chipped bearings. Through sleep-crusted eyes, all he could see was the beige-on-gray blur of the prop against the peeling paint. His arm stung from the hardjack and the tug of the IV.
Hurt. The first thing he felt was a dull, oppressive pain. He reached for the plug with numb fingers and plucked it free with a groan. The IV followed, popped clean of the dock just above his wrist.
He forced himself to sit and waited for the diffused ache to resolve. Minutes passed, and the world transformed from noise to muted blobs of color. Only then did he pull his glasses over his nose and attempt to confront 'reality'.
His apartment was too cold. The temperature had fallen with the sun, and the sliding door was off its track. The wind cut through the cracks on the balcony blinds, escorting in the neon sunset, alternating blasts of purple and green. Firenze glanced towards his clock. Seven. The sun would have gone beyond the towers by now, and wouldn't be back until ten tomorrow. Loward never got much light.
A foil wrapper danced from the overflowed trash and scampered across the threadbare carpet. It bounced on the frigid breeze and crumpled against his naked foot. Disgusted, he snatched it up.
He staggered across the studio apartment, shoved the wrapper deep into the can, and stumbled towards the fridge. Loward was never silent, even at night. The lights buzzed, and the pipes choked. His fingers closed on the bare metal of his ancient fridge, and he heard the sirens rise again. It was another beautiful night in the city.
Firenze pried the refrigerator open, and the industrial monstrosity clanked in protest. Today was a big day. He could afford to treat himself to a 'peanut butter chocolate' bar instead of a 'peanut butter' for dinner. It was all protein paste, anyway.
He used hard soda to burn away the clog in his throat, then tried to force down the first gob.