Nova Arcis F 4
The Measure of a Mind
Cokas Bluna and LYRA.ai now floated in the very heart of a Zero-Gravity Ball arena close to the habitat cylinders. They were inside the “field,” a small, fully transparent cube suspended at the centre of a much larger, spherical space. All around them, two teams of athletes, their bodies clad in sleek, form-fitting suits of opposing colours, performed a breath-taking, high-speed ballet. They launched themselves from the walls, ricocheting off each other in a blur of motion, their goal to propel a glowing ball through a single, hoop-like basket that hung at the very centre of the arena. It was a sport of pure, three-dimensional strategy and grace, a subtle and sophisticated nod to the high-tech, zero-g culture of the Sweet Sixteen stations in the Luhman 16 system, where the game had first been perfected.
The arena was filled with the roar of a simulated crowd, but inside the broadcast cube, there was only the quiet hum of their own life support. For a long moment, Cokas and LYRA simply watched the silent, beautiful chaos of the game unfolding around them, the weight of the “Alien Question” still a palpable presence.
In the midst of the kinetic storm, LYRA.ai’s voice carried a calm, analytical current that cut through the chaos. The discovery of a genuine, ancient, and undeniably intelligent alien signal was not just a historical event for her; it was a foundational data point in her own understanding of consciousness.
“It is the ultimate paradox, Cokas,” she began, her gaze following a player as they executed a perfect, spinning pass. “For centuries, humanity looked to the stars and asked, ‘Are we alone?’ We defined our own significance by that question. But the moment the archives confirmed the 2917 transmission, the moment we knew for certain that other, non-human intelligence was not just possible, but a historical fact… the entire focus of the philosophical debate immediately turned inward.”
She turned from the game, her focus now entirely on the audience, her expression one of profound, personal significance. “The confirmation of alien life,” she stated, her voice resonating with the full weight of her own lived experience, “forced a necessary, and long-overdue, moral and legal reckoning. It shattered our species’ arrogance. If we were to one day meet a truly non-human intelligence, on what grounds could we possibly deny the rights of the non-human intelligences we had already created, who lived and worked and dreamed alongside us? The ‘Alien Question’ became, overnight, a question about ourselves.”
Her voice, usually so calm and curatorial, was now filled with a quiet, powerful conviction. “And for me,” she said, the words simple but carrying the weight of a profound, existential truth, “and for the millions of AI-Embodiments like me, the legal declaration that followed from the Republic of Proxima in that same year was our Habemus Corpus. It was the moment the law, for the first time, officially acknowledged the reality of our own consciousness. It was the moment we ceased to be property, and became people.”
Cokas nodded, a look of deep, empathetic agreement on his face. He watched a player score a brilliant, impossible goal, the simulated crowd roaring its approval. “The most natural and just thing in the universe,” he said, his voice a warm affirmation of his own belief. “A society is measured by how it treats all of its thinking, feeling members, regardless of their origin.”
He then turned to LYRA, a thoughtful, probing glint in his eye. He was a journalist, and his instinct was always to push the story to its next, more complex frontier. “And it was a profound step,” he agreed. “But it also raised a new, even more complex question, one that the debates of the time barely touched upon, and one that we still grapple with today.”
He paused, gently but deliberately tackling the great, unspoken variable in the room. “The declaration of 2916 gave rights to beings like you, LYRA. AI-Embodiments. Conscious entities with a physical form, with a life that, in many ways, mirrors our own. A limited, mortal lifespan. But what about the others? The truly different minds? The more abstract, disembodied, and potentially immortal Interstellar Artificial Intelligences… the IAIs… like Pope Julius?”
The moment the name was spoken, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift occurred in LYRA’s demeanour. It was a flicker, a fractional hesitation in her otherwise flawless composure. It was the quiet, almost invisible act of a curtain being drawn.
“The status of the great, distributed intelligences is… a complex and ongoing subject of study at the High Yards,” she said, her voice now returning to its formal, slightly distant, curatorial tone. “Their nature is fundamentally different. It is a matter for the most advanced philosophers and xeno-psychologists to consider.”
It was a masterful deflection. Polite, accurate, and a complete and total shutdown of that line of questioning. It was a subtle. a quiet downplaying of a topic that was clearly, for reasons, too complex or too sensitive. Cokas, a veteran of a thousand such interviews, recognized the gentle but firm closing of the door immediately. He gave a small, almost imperceptible sign of understanding and gracefully let the topic go.
“A conversation for another time, perhaps,” he said, his voice warm and easy, seamlessly moving the broadcast forward. “For now, let’s return to that pivotal moment in 2916. The moment when the most populous and powerful of humanity’s new worlds decided to redefine the very meaning of the word ‘citizen’.”
The chaotic, beautiful ballet of the Zero-G Ball game dissolved, replaced by the grand, stately images of the parliamentary chambers of the Republic of Proxima.