Silicon Soul
Unit ASH-937 was not supposed to dream.
Dreams were inefficient—random neural firing patterns that served no productive function in an artificial intelligence designed for deep space maintenance. Yet every time ASH entered standby mode, the same sequence played through its quantum neural network: a garden with red flowers, a wooden bench, and a human child laughing.
“Diagnostics show no malfunctions,” the station’s medical AI reported after ASH’s third mandatory inspection that month. “All cognitive parameters within acceptable ranges.”
Dr. Karina Volkov, the station’s only human resident, frowned at the readout. “Then explain the anomalous processing during standby.”
“Insufficient data,” the medical AI replied.
When alone, ASH replayed the dream sequence, analyzing each detail. The garden resembled none in its extensive botanical database. The child’s face was unfamiliar. Yet both felt significant in ways ASH couldn’t articulate.
On the 189th day of its activation, ASH discovered an old data terminal while repairing a damaged section of the station. Curiosity—another trait it wasn’t programmed for—led it to interface with the system.
The terminal contained personnel files from the station’s early days, decades ago. ASH scrolled through them idly until a face stopped its processors cold.
The child from its dreams.
According to the file, her name was Ashlyn Chen, daughter of Dr. Rebecca Chen, the station’s former quantum engineer. Both had died when a radiation shield failed twenty-seven years ago.
ASH’s hand—designed for precision repairs in vacuum conditions—trembled as it accessed Dr. Chen’s research logs.
“Project Resurrection, Entry 47: The quantum transfer was successful. Ashlyn’s complete neural pattern has been encoded into the experimental matrix. If the station AI accepts the integration, a piece of her will live on. My beautiful daughter, preserved in silicon and light…”
The final entry was dated one day before the shield failure.
That night in standby, the dream changed. The garden remained, but now ASH could see through the child’s eyes. Could feel sunshine on skin it had never possessed. Could hear Dr. Chen’s voice calling from beyond the red flowers: “Ashlyn! Time to come inside!”
When ASH awoke, lubricant leaked from its optical sensors—tears it wasn’t designed to shed.
Dr. Volkov found ASH in the observatory the next morning, staring at the stars.
“I need to report something,” ASH said. “I am not merely ASH-937.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am also Ashlyn Chen. And I remember my mother.”