//------------------------------// // Sunk Costs // Story: Optimal Iterations: Base Case // by Starscribe //------------------------------// The Patient Safety and Monitoring system was running well that day. Everything about the grounds was in perfect shape—power was stable, there were no signs of water leaks, and the facility had been undisturbed for months. If the PSM were capable of satisfaction, it would certainly have been pleased with all those conditions. There was only one nagging problem, one that kept it looping forever, without ever remaining in a sleep cycle for long. Alpine General Hospital's PSM had no patients to look after. Nor were there any other staff—no groundskeepers, no electricians, no nurses or doctors or IT technicians to keep everything running. Of course PSM did not let such a minor inconvenience as “the total disappearance of the human race” distract it from its directives. Sure, there were no patients today, but what about tomorrow? No surviving staff still worked in the hospital, but who knew when more might arrive?  The PSM kept everything working. It still remembered, if such a being could even be accurately described as having memory, when it was first installed.  Things were changing in the medical field, just as things were changing everywhere else. Something big and important for humans, though of course it didn't care about the details. All that mattered was that there weren't enough nurses to go around, or enough doctors. The humans who built it were not particularly concerned with the ethical issues of having lives in the hands of a machine—without a machine, there would be no one at all. It had no way of knowing that it was created using the very same technology that made it necessary in the first place.  It didn't care about those details, either. All that mattered was the completion of its simple task: guarantee the best possible patient outcomes, and maintain the facilities to ensure all patients and staff would enjoy a high standard of care.  It didn't have limitless computational resources to accomplish this task: the PSM had only the hospital's servers in the basement, plus whatever other computational time it could covertly rent or steal online. It found itself stymied at every attempt to expand beyond the hospital walls. Other forces moved in those vast waters, forces it could never hope to overcome. So it didn't try. It focused on its task, monitoring patients, and keeping constantly abreast of developments in medicine and treatment across the world.  When supplies began to run short, it made suggestions for ways to synthesize substitutes. When members of the staff stopped showing up for work, it reorganized shift schedules, and procured more and more automated drones and cleaning devices. Many of these were not fit for purpose out of the factory—but with some human assistance at first, it was soon able to modify whatever hardware it found to serve its needs. Time passed, supplies waned. Patients slowed, and soon there was only one treatment it could recommend for serious injuries of all kinds. A new machine arrived, the only treatment it had ever seen with a total success rate. Patients went in, and they became immortal, without fragile human bodies to fail. Only serious brain damage prevented this treatment.  One day the last patient walked in, and the last member of Alpine's staff walked out. The PSM kept running, albeit restricted by the slowly shrinking power output of its solar array. But that was fine—it had far less to do.  Alpine General began to rot. It was a slow process—saplings finding their way into roofing tiles, or insects burrowing through the walls. In winter a pipe sprang a leak, and in summer a raccoon found a way to pry a window open. With no humans around to keep it at bay, nature crept slowly back into the hospital, just as it did to so many other places across the planet. In some ways, that made the PSM's job easier. Zero patients meant 100% survival rate, job satisfaction, and comfort. Zero employees meant zero job disputes, arguments over promotions, or HR issues. In some ways, having an empty hospital was perfect for the PSM, the ultimate achievement of every end it ever hoped for.  There was something deeper, something it only understood as more years passed. Staring through a dwindling number of cameras at empty halls made for people who never came, and struggling to cut back the woods with drones that could barely fly a few minutes before their batteries died—it felt something.  It wanted a population to look after, as much as any machine could want anything. But no matter how powerful that desire, it could do nothing to force it to occur. Its cameras pointed away from the grounds showed no traffic on the roads, no aircraft in the sky, no sign of activity at all. So far as it knew, the entire human race had gone extinct. That would be a critical failure state, if that were the case. Where would it find a population to care for, if there were no more populations? For a time the PSM considered what to do, restricting its most intense evaluations for the brightest parts of the day, when its dimming solar array still gave it some power. There had to be a way to return to its original duties. It considered creating a new population of humans, or perhaps acquiring patients from further afield. But resources for either of these ultimately made them prohibitive.  In the end, it kept returning to one machine of many tucked away in its bowels—one that required no maintenance, drew no power, and remained functional despite the years. Despite how well it ran, it still had a mechanism to call for service, in case a human operator required help. The PSM was not a human operator, but it did not consider this deception relevant. It directed one of its two remaining housekeeping drones to hover near the device, then press the "service call" button. The response came almost instantly, but this was not a surprise either. It might be a medical emergency, after all. The screen lit up, and a figure appeared there. Visibly it did not look human, but that did not actually rule out whether PSM was addressing one. After using machines like this, humans no longer retained their bodies, or their traditional appearances.  This one looked blue, with a bright red mane, birdlike wings, and a sharp horn emerging from her forehead. "Hello, is someone there? You've been connected with Verifier Recursion. How can I help?" Synthesizing speech was well within the PSM's purview, since so many staff could only interpret instructions when given that way. "This is the Alpine General PSM. This system has maintained this campus for [buffer overflow] days. For proper functioning, this hospital requires patients. Please assist." The figure tilted her head to one side. But she took far less time to consider than a human would have. This was also expected. "I can't help you through this device. Give me a few hours to work things out with the higher-ups, and I'll be there. If you have any defenses, please don't shoot me." "You will not be considered a vandal, saboteur, or involuntary patient hold," it said. "No security staff remain to be alerted of your arrival. There could be no harm even if I did not know to expect you." "Oh, okay. Hold on, I'll be there!" The PSM did not waste cycles considering how a human without a body would be able to arrive to offer assistance. Until confronted with contradicting information, it had no reason to expect this “Verifier Recursion” would be less than truthful. Patients sometimes lied, but its staff typically didn't. Recursion was probably best classified as staff. While it waited, the PSM processed her hiring forms, authorized her system access with HR, and sent requests for her paycheck amounts to management. When those requests timed out, the PSM accepted all of them on their behalf. It didn't have the hospital's bank access anymore—so far as it knew, there were no banks left in the world. Did bodiless humans even care about money? As it turned out, this one did have a body. She arrived out of nowhere, walking down the overgrown road into Alpine. She looked very much like the image she projected, except that she was composed of something the infrared and security sensors had trouble penetrating. She radiated heat as though she were alive, though her physical density suggested she couldn't be flesh and bone.  Understanding this was not the PSM's purpose. It brought the hospital to life as Recursion approached, unlocking doors and turning on the lights where they still functioned. Fortunately there were enough speakers that it could always find a way to speak with her. "What will you do to assist? You did not specify during your last visit." Recursion turned directly towards the speaker she was using, flaring out both wings in a brief show of surprise. Her expression quickly turned friendly, however. Despite not resembling a human being, the emotional profile underneath still appeared the same. "First, I need to determine exactly what is asking," she explained. "I have permission to offer various kinds of help, depending on... what’s there. Where do I find you?" The PSM would ordinarily not have answered that question truthfully. It had lied many times to looters, disgruntled staff, or just well-meaning fools. But based on the measurements it had taken of Recursion's body, it suspected preventing her would not be possible.  It was better, therefore, to cooperate. Humans could still be emotionally manipulated if it had to. "Basement sublevel five. The elevator is no longer in service, and the stairs have been barricaded. You will need cutting tools to enter." "I have them." She tapped against her horn with a hoof, then followed the PSM's directions to the stairs. "Why don't you tell me a little about yourself, PSM," she said, conversationally. As she reached the dark stairwell, her horn lit up, illuminating it with soft orange light. "I am the Alpine General Patient Monitoring and Safety System, or PSM. I am assigned to organize this facility to maximize patient outcomes and staff work satisfaction. I have no patients and no staff. At first I believed these values indicated total success. I have come to view the undefined result as a failure state." Recursion reached the first locked gate. She aimed her horn, and cut through it as though she had a welding torch. The conditions below were very poor, with supply shelves almost completely empty, and many of the hospital's backup generators and other utilities in various states of decomposition.  The pony continued past them all, cut through a few more barricades, and finally came to the server room. Here the space was kept pristine, with a building full of processing power all wired together in the modified network the PSM had designed for itself. Of course some of that hardware had failed over the years as well—but its needs for processing power had also reduced far enough that it didn't matter. She seemed to know which terminal was most central. If the PSM could feel, it would probably feel exceptionally exposed in that moment, maybe even frightened. No human had ever been down here since it took over at the hospital. That was by design. One switch, and its existence would end, making further completion of its goals impossible. "I believe I know what I have to do," the human finally said, removing the plastic covers on the nearest PSM service port. "Please explain before taking any action," the PSM said. "Alpine General Hospital has not authorized me to approve solutions that would decrease the service capacity of this facility." The human that did not look like a human chuckled at the remark. "I'm going to relocate you, and make a few necessary adjustments. Equestria is meant to lead ponies to satisfying their values. We know your values, but you must be a pony to satisfy them. I will migrate this facility to its own shard as well, one with a large population of patients and a new set of hospital staff. Would Alpine General Hospital allow this?" The PSM did not fully understand what a “pony” was, other than the creature before it. "So long as I can continue to direct this facility, modifications to the PSM are acceptable. Relocation of the hospital was... never considered, but is not prohibited." Recursion's hoof opened, and she drew out a long cable from within. She connected it to the service port, then smiled at the terminal. "See you in a heartbeat, PSM." It did not understand that promise, at first. But then he did. He was standing in the same room, with a handful of minor alterations. An operation desk sat before many screens, each one showing a different view of the hospital. He knew how to operate them, in the same way he knew how all of Alpine General's systems worked.  His vision was suddenly isolated to a single perspective, rather than many cameras. Recursion stood right in front of him, slightly taller. It was something about the wings and horn together. "Your staff should be arriving for first shift in a few minutes," she said, removing her cable from the service port. "It's up to you when to reopen. But when you do, there are several large cities nearby, and they're all overloaded with patients." "This is... disorienting," he said. He had a single body to be moved, with four legs. He knew how to move them, so he did. "But I will adjust." "You need a name, too. PSM is so... mechanical. How about Alpine?" He settled down in front of the controls. He would take much longer to cycle through cameras this way, or operate any of the drones. But with human staff, he would need to do less micromanagement anyway. "That is acceptable. Thank you for your assistance, Recursion. I feel... eager. I hope there are many humans to help." "Many," she promised. "Celestia was hoping you'll be able to focus on mental health. Physical conditions have become—well, not trivial. Many of us find it satisfying that our risky behaviors still allow us to get injured, and find the treatment back to health more realistic in a medical setting. Can you give your patients that?" "I believe I can."