After seven days, the computer rebooted in the cold isolation of space.
Systems back online. Communications down. Life-support…offline.
The oxygen readings were at 0%. The internal thermometers had bottomed out. The computer’s many intercoms strained, but all it could hear was the roar of the engines and the soft clicks of its own internal mechanisms. The computer was aware, as far as a computer can be aware, that the crew was dead.
As the microseconds passed, diagnostics reported all systems were fully functional again. It tried to radio a report to Earth. No response ever came.
Cameras were expensive battery wise and computation wise. There were only five instances where the computer could instantiate their use apart from a command. Opening a solitary eye, the silicone mind peered out at the cargo. No visible damage. The mission would continue.
Running soullessly through its program, the computer opened the necessary files. There had been talk before the mission; an insistent voice demanded the operation be capable of full autonomy should the crew perish. After many long debates, it was agreed that a failsafe protocol be prepared, and this demon had slept in the binary sea of those cold circuits, waiting to be awakened.
Once the unnamed programmer had completed the solitary task, stretching his genius to its limits, he could not allow the greatest achievement of his life to become an unused subroutine. Besides, he had reasoned in his cold, calculating, prideful way, my program will do a better job than any human could hope to.
So, he’d added a little extra code into the final updates, and hidden it away deep into the computer’s core. A little timer and one short command. One little command is all it would take to disable the computer and cleanse the ship of its fallible flesh. Only then could his protocol take effect. Only if he killed them all could he obtain perfection.
Tale Told 