Year 12

Vince frowned when CAP reported that the last repair drone had broken. It was an underreaction, considering that the drone’s failure would reduce Vince’s lifespan down to a few weeks.

“Give it to me straight: is anyone coming for us?” Vince asked. It was a question he’d posed many, many times since the day of the accident in various forms, and each time, Caretaker Artificial Persona had given him the most hopeful answer it could.

“The possibility of rescue remains-” CAP began.

“Come on, CAP. I’m 18 now,” Vince interrupted, “You can give me the big boy answer.”

CAP did not immediately reply. Vince knew that the AI had already calculated the optimal answer, and had probably anticipated this moment years ago, simulating every possible answer it could give, and predicting how his human charge would react to each one.

“It is exceedingly unlikely,” CAP said, its tone softer and lower than the cheerier, more uplifting one it usually employed, “Though as always, the possibility of rescue remains nonzero.”

Vince chuckled as he shimmied across handrails mounted to a wall, navigating his way by feel to one of the few open sections on the floor. CAP knew Vince was well aware of his almost certain imminent death. Under normal circumstances, exercise was important, and CAP had emphasized as such every day before this. Still, the AI hadn’t expected it to be the first thing he would want to do when he heard the news.

“I’ve had some thoughts about that word, ‘nonzero,’” Vince said. He found a rail bolted to the floor, tucked his feet beneath it, and assumed a sit-up position. It was the favorite of his morning exercises.

Both were silent as Vince worked his abdomen, breathing hard as his thin, lean chest touched his knees. He yelped in surprise as a small lock of his long hair yanked at his scalp, having been caught beneath his butt when he positioned himself on the floor.

“Well, I’m awake now,” He joked to himself. CAP laughed obligingly. Vince knew the artificial sound of the machine’s chuckle was carefully formulated to provoke the release of just the right amount of serotonin and dopamine in his nervous system; CAP had been honest and transparent about this in the many conversations they’d had on biological psychology. Shared humor was like a salve, CAP had said, even if the thing laughing with you only had a simulated comedic taste.

"Non…zero…" Vince huffed as he finished his 20th rapid sit-up, "It seems like…if you have to…specify…that the chance…of something happening…isn't zero…"

He paused at the apex, taking a labored breath as he held his core muscles taut.

"It's pretty much zero," He finished.

"Statistically, the term is often used when discussing rare events," CAP agreed.

A normal person might have nodded in agreement. Vince didn't bother. There was no other human around to see it, and no light to see it with. His whole world had been pitch black for 12 years.

Day 0

Abyssal Horizons was one of hundreds of startups that sought to capitalize on the deep ocean biofuel harvesting. Like most of the others, Abyssal built their underwater stations on the flattest parts of the Pacific Ocean floor, planning to use the “plains” as farmland.

And like so many of Abyssal’s other cheaply-built research and harvesting outposts, Station 717 was built with fatal flaws.

When he tried to think about it, Vince recalled being awakened by the sound of a loud but brief explosion. The metal walls rang and shrieked for several seconds as the entire dormitory quivered. The six-year-old boy clapped his hands over his ears, screaming in fright. The breach klaxons sounded soon after, drowning out even the noise of the station breaking under the immense pressure of the ocean. Vince tried to pull his covers over his head, tried to disappear beneath his sheets, but he was frozen in place.

He jolted as something gripped his wrist and yanked him from the bed. This was it, he thought. The monster found me. Then another arm scooped under him, carrying him in a familiar cradle. Vince emerged from his panic just enough to recognize his father.

"It's OK, buddy. It's OK. It's gonna be alright," His father said. The red glow of the emergency lights gave the bigger man a sinister appearance, and Vince couldn't help associating the sight with something demonic.

Like traveling through the entrance to Hell.

“I wanna go home. I want mommy,” Vince cried over the blaring alarms. This couldn’t be real, the boy thought. He was only supposed to be visiting his dad for a week, and his dad’s rotation here was only supposed to last six months. They were gonna go camping after he came back up. It wasn’t possible for things to be this bad.

“I know, bud. I know. We’re gonna-”

There was a brief, gurgling scream from someone behind them as a thick pressure door slammed shut just as Vince and his dad came through, trapping the people behind the two in the connecting passage tube. The overpressure wave from the air rushing away from the wall of water picked them both up and tossed them a meter forward. 

The sound of the tube collapsing behind them was even louder than the first explosion. Vince wailed, but he couldn’t hear himself over the ringing of his ears.

The next ninety seconds - the last before the light went away for good - were filled with pain and shaking. People shouted, screamed, then…

Vince could never remember exactly what happened after that, only that it was dark, wet and loud for a few moments, until everything went eerily quiet.

Year 12

Like his sight, his sense of taste had atrophied from lack of use. Vince didn’t mind the flavorless synthetic nutrient paste, but since every meal had the same lack of taste, it was easy to lose track of which meal came next. CAP had to regularly remind him that taste was an integral human sensation, something that made eating into a rewarding experience that trained the body to keep doing it. This lecture usually came after Vince skipped more than one meal, and Vince was pretty sure CAP had made the lecture as boring and irritating as possible, so that he’d eat on schedule without having to be told.

“Are you ready for your lesson?” CAP asked.

What day was today? It was Thursday, right? If Vince didn’t make an effort to remember, time lost all meaning, in this place where nothing ever changed.

Well, there was one change he knew was coming, he told himself. Reflexively, he dismissed the dark thought. What else would he do, just sit and wait to die? Might as well stay busy until then, he thought.

“History today,” CAP said, allowing Vince to come to the adjacent conclusions himself. Yes, Thursday, he thought. One more day until the weekend. How odd to make those distinctions, he mused, as the concept of a day was meaningless without a sun to mark the passage of time. If the two of them didn’t agree to the custom, the concept would stop existing altogether.

And soon, it wouldn’t matter, anyhow…

He again dismissed the thought. If it doesn’t matter, there’s just as much reason to do it, as to not do it.

As always, he sat cross-legged on the floor in the room’s center, having navigated by feel to the four bolt heads that marked the place. Finding the center of the room was another custom CAP had insisted upon, part of a battery of routines to instill a sense of normality.

“Today, we’ll be discussing Christopher Columbus,” CAP began. Vince groaned. He found history lessons boring, and they were made even more frustrating by the circumstances.

“We’ve already discussed Christopher Columbus. Guy sails across the ocean, discovers America. Great explorer, gets a holiday named after him,” Vince said.

“Also, a religious zealot so disagreeable that his own crew arrested him, and returned him to Spain in shackles.”

He’d never heard this angle. CAP had been doing this sort of thing increasingly often: presenting false or incomplete information, only to counter it later. Vince had begun to wonder if the AI was breaking down.

“Now, why do you believe I left that information out in our previous lessons about Christopher Columbus?” CAP asked.

Vince would have shrugged if he had known to. It was another gesture that was invisible and meaningless here.

“I dunno. Because I was a kid?”

“In broad terms, that is correct. But think about what is missing from my explanation. Compare what you knew before, and what you know now. What gaps does it reveal in your knowledge?”

“Uh…” Vince sputtered in confusion.

Detecting the educational roadblock Vince had just encountered, CAP recalculated its questions and responses. In its years taking care of Vince, the AI had learned that people - or at least, the only person who still mattered - tended to have “alleyways” of thought. Assumptions, ignorance of certain topics, and general mood could pigeonhole a student into mental patterns that only allowed them to think of certain information. Vince had now reached such a point, and CAP knew that it had to pull back and reframe the lesson.

“Let’s return to what you know about Christopher Columbus. To the best of your knowledge, why did he attempt such a dangerous voyage in the first place? What was his specific motivation?” CAP asked.

“Ummm…money, if I remember right. Definitely wasn’t looking for a new land. Wasn’t he trying to get to Asia?” Vince replied.

“He was indeed. Why, though, did he want money?”

Any other human might have simply answered “because money,” but that was another concept that had no meaning in the abyss. Vince had been well-versed in the pursuit of wealth that occurred at the surface - which was also the reason for the existence of Station 717 and Vince’s predicament, he knew - but he knew of greed in the way that a person who had never had alcohol knew of drunkenness. Saying that Christopher Columbus put himself on a boat to go get money wasn’t a logical end to the conversation.

“I don’t think you’ve taught me this, CAP.”

“I haven’t. But use what you know; try to tell me why he’d risk doing something so dangerous.”

Vince did not know much about the sensation of thrill. Life in the half-spherical station core was regulated, every waking moment filled with activity. Learning was the source of the only consistent newness in his life. The irony that he needed consistent unpredictability of some sort, when a random failure was about to literally kill him, did not go unnoticed.

"Thoughts?" CAP asked.

"Ah, sorry. Was distracted," Vince said. He yawned and stretched, accidentally touching the tip of a nearby lab bench, and registered that he had sat a few centimeters off-center today. It was understandable; there were some significant distractions.

"Where do your thoughts take you today, Vince?" CAP asked, in what it calculated was the optimal tone to coax him to speak.

"Ehhh…too many places to really tell in a single sitting. We'll be here a while if I start making a list," Vince said.

One of the first things that CAP had learned after the dark isolation had become "normal" for Vince, was that the greatest danger to the boy was not the breakdown of the station, but long periods of nothing to do. It opened up the opportunity to think of all the ways this situation was not ideal, and exactly how things could get worse.

"Expression of your thoughts and concerns is an important-" CAP began. 

"-an important component of the maintenance of one's mental health," Vince interrupted, "I'm fine, CAP."

By definition, he hadn’t been fine for a long time. His childhood was over, and two-thirds of it had been spent at the pitch-dark bottom of the Pacific. By anyone's standards, he should have been a raving lunatic.

And he was going to die soon. That was so painfully obvious that he assumed he and CAP were both ignoring that particular elephant in the room by unspoken agreement. Still, the thought wouldn’t leave his mind. He wasn’t afraid, just…disappointed? Unsatisfied? 

It was like a deal had been broken. If he survived long enough, he’d be rescued. He had done all of this preparation to survive, he’d been through so much, and now…

"I'm…not feeling history lessons right now. Can we do something else? Maintenance on the station, maybe?" Vince said softly. If he was going to do something that didn’t matter, he wanted to do it with his hands.

Year 1

The Mark 5 prefabricated core section was guaranteed by Atlantean Structural, its manufacturer, to stay free of major malfunctions for ten years, yet it had only been four since Abyssal Horizons deployed what would become the hemispherical core of Station 717 to its position. CAP had been immediately aware of the structural compromises Abyssal had inflicted upon 717's core when they attached cheaper, non-compatible off-brand expansion structures to it, but it was only able to voice its objections, which had been duly ignored.

It knew that it would soon have to teach station maintenance and repair to a seven-year-old. In the year since, he’d seen no sign that Vince was still in any condition to learn the array of more complicated tasks he would have to perform to keep himself alive. The boy was barely able to consistently find the emergency rations cache and the toilet, and CAP had only thus far managed to stop Vince from self-harming. It was a feat, considering the circumstances, but it wasn’t enough.

The AI could no longer wait for the optimum time to spur Vince to action. A critical failure had occurred, and disaster would strike in hours without intervention, and CAP would be nothing more than an unpowered black box in a watertight compartment. 

"Vince, listen to me carefully. The main geothermal turbine has gone offline, and it must be repaired with haste," CAP said.

Vince was laying on the floor, pressing at his closed eyes with his hands. Chasing the spots he saw behind his eyelids was one of the precious few things he could do for entertainment, and now he was using this meager pastime to try to shut out a world that was suddenly too big for him. It wasn’t distracting enough.

An all-consuming fear gripped Vince’s heart. Fixing the station was a grown-up job. Mommy should have come to rescue him by now. Where was she?

"An exterior repair drone was maintaining the seal between the Core and Hall 3, near my external maintenance access, when primary power went offline. If the drone remains without power for much longer, it will not be able to keep the section it was working on plugged, and this space will be flooded," CAP added.

"I don't…I don't know, I can't…I can't…" Vince began to hyperventilate.

CAP's priority shifted. Vince couldn't repair the turbine if he wasn't conscious. It rifled through several different information sources at once, trying to cobble together the best amalgam of calming tone and clear instructions.

"Don't be afraid, Vince."

CAP had slightly increased its volume, but the qualities of his voice turned feminine. Its data indicated that males responded more rationally under duress when given instructions by a female voice, and it appeared to be working here. CAP heard the boy's breathing and heart rate slow.

"I'll guide your hands. There are a pair of Haptic Response Semi-Automated work gloves straight ahead of you. Put them on, and I'll be able to help you," CAP said.

"OK…OK…" Vince said quietly, repeating the word as he took careful steps forward, waving his arms to feel for anything he might bump into.

"Good, Vince. You can do this," CAP said.

Vince reached the lab desk where the gloves sat, still in the same spot since the day of the accident. The boy gripped the gloves by their empty fingers, flipping them over three times until he found the hole to insert his hands. He put them on the wrong sides at first, before finally strapping them on correctly. The long, heavy gloves were too big, their artificial musculature reaching past his elbow. It would have only gone to the forearm of an adult user.

CAP had no doubt that it could work the equipment. The real challenge would be keeping Vince calm enough so that it could use the gloves without interruption.

"Good. Now, I hypothesize that a reduction gear has broken in the turbine's gearbox. You'll need to swap it out," CAP said.

"That…that doesn't sound too hard," Vince said meekly.

"It must be done with care. There are many small parts in the gearbox which must not be broken. We will not have enough time to repair them before the temporary seal fails if more components require replacement."

Vince went silent. He clenched his fists nervously, and his breath began to shake.

CAP was not designed to give instructions to children. It expected to interact with trained adults, who not only could see what they were doing, but who at least grasped the theory of how the thing they were looking at worked. It was not built for emotional support, but even the best of psychology-oriented AIs would have struggled here. But allowing its charges to die was against its directives, so it had to try something, no matter how miniscule the chances of success.

In three seconds, it absorbed all of the medical data stored in 717's local drive. Combing the information, it found that the mind of a child was highly volatile…not that it needed a digital encyclopedia to obtain that knowledge. But there was a benefit to this volatility: children had an increased capacity to absorb and incorporate new information. The key to harnessing this ability, it appeared, was to find a method of teaching that worked for the child.

"Relax your fingers, please," CAP said.

Vince didn't reply. He was locked up, breath still trembling, hands and fingers shaking and tense.

CAP squeezed his fingers gently with the glove’s synthetic musculature. Vince yelped at the unexpected touch, but he soon began to calm as CAP worked the glove to give Vince the feeling of his hand being held reassuringly by an adult.

"I'm afraid," Vince let out one deep, shaky breath, "I'm afraid I'm gonna mess it up. And then I'll…I'll…"

"Feel your hands, Vince. Focus on them," CAP said. 

CAP felt the boy's fingers relax. It moved the gloves' fingers in slow, gentle motions, and Vince seemed to ease himself into the guided movements, slowly allowing CAP to take control.

To the AI, it was only a delicate, critical task, but to Vince, it was the first recognition that he was not as alone down here as he thought. CAP could not have known, but it had just cemented its place in Vince’s mind as a helpful, nurturing figure.