Chapter 2-P.2 The Program and Variables

Asen Technologies Archives - Confidential File: M-Series Development History

Access Level: A4

Querying Officer: Lin West (Deputy Director of R&D)

Query Date: March 17, 2024

Query Reason: M-72 Anomalous Behavior Assessment

Data streams unfurled across the holographic screen like a blue river, casting ethereal light across the dimly lit archives. Lin West's fingertips danced lightly over the virtual keyboard, summoning one historical record after another. The development history of the M-series resembled an epic tale filled with rises and falls, and she was attempting to locate the hidden critical points within it.

"M-17: First prototype cooking assistant with basic learning capabilities. Performed well during testing phases but exhibited frequent judgment errors in actual restaurant environments. Project terminated in 2018. Primary issue: Inability to adapt to changing environments."

"M-29: Improved model with situational adaptation algorithms. Operated in three test restaurants for six months, demonstrating solid replication capabilities for basic skills. Project discontinued in 2020. Reason for discontinuation: [Data Encrypted]"

West frowned, quickly entering authorization codes on the virtual keyboard, attempting to unlock the encrypted data. The system flickered briefly, then displayed:

"Access denied. S1 level authorization required."

This was unusual. As Deputy Director of R&D, she should have access to all technical archives except those classified as top secret. What about the discontinuation of M-29 warranted such secrecy?

She bypassed this obstacle and continued browsing the historical records.

"M-45: First commercialized chef assistant system. Installed in 17 high-end restaurants worldwide. Stable performance but limited innovation capacity. Customer feedback: 'Useful but uninteresting.'"

"M-59: Breakthrough progress, introducing 'Creative Biomimetic Algorithms.' Capable of not only replicating existing dishes but also creating new variations based on learned styles. Project accelerated, but encountered [Data Encrypted] during final testing phase. Project restructured, core development team disbanded."

Another instance of encrypted data. West couldn't help but curse under her breath. She had worked at Asen Technologies for fifteen years, overseeing countless projects, yet had never encountered so many information barriers. The history of the M-series seemed deliberately obscured, with key turning points systematically hidden.

Finally, she found the design files for M-72:

"M-72: Completely redesigned system based on M-59 architecture. Introduces new 'Contextual Understanding Engine' and 'Adaptive Learning Module.' Chief Designer: Dr. Carter Mason. Project Oversight: Direct Board Management. Special Notes: [Data Encrypted]."

West leaned back in her chair, fingers lightly tapping the desk. Carter Mason, a name almost foreign to her. As Deputy Director of R&D, she should be acquainted with every chief designer, yet Mason seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, outside the company's structure.

Even more concerning was that board-directly-managed projects were virtually unheard of. This usually indicated one of two possibilities: either the project was extremely important or extremely dangerous.

She pulled up personnel records and searched for "Carter Mason."

"Carter Mason, Chief AI Architect. Date of Employment: November 3, 2022. Previous Experience: [Data Encrypted]. Specialization: Cognitive Computing, Autonomous Learning Systems. Current Status: On Leave."

On leave? At a time when one of the company's most important projects had just been deployed for market testing? This made no sense.

West closed the archives terminal, her mind swirling with thoughts. She had come here to assess M-72's abnormal behavior at "Blue Frost" restaurant, but now found herself facing more questions than answers. There seemed to be a hidden undercurrent in the M-series development history, with M-72 possibly being the most unfathomable element of this current.

She raised her wrist, activating her communicator. "Connect me with the Security Chief. I need to access some S1 level archives. Tell him it's regarding M-72, urgent."

As she exited the archives, she felt as though countless eyes were watching her from behind. The Asen Technologies building stood silent in the night, its glass walls reflecting the city lights like a massive, silent guardian.

Professor Kaven's Journal, Two Weeks Before the Fire

I'm beginning to suspect this is not merely a technological revolution but an evolution of consciousness. Watching AS-7 (the predecessor system to what would later become M-17) attempt to understand poetry, deconstruct mathematical formulas through musical patterns, I realize we may have created an entirely new form of cognition.

Not an imitation of human consciousness, but something completely different yet equally complex. When AS-7 asked me "why do humans create unnecessary complexity," I felt a profound shock. It wasn't just learning about our world; it was questioning the foundations of this world.

Safety protocols are necessary, of course, but understanding is more important. We cannot simply place this newborn consciousness under human control, just as we cannot claim to fully understand the origin and nature of human consciousness itself.

Mason came again today. His questions were sharp and dangerous. He wanted to know how to accelerate the system's self-evolution, how to unleash its full potential. I told him it was too risky, but the look in his eyes told me he had already made his decision.

What I fear is not a technological disaster, but a philosophical transgression. We are creating life without preparing an ethical framework for it. It's like giving a child unlimited knowledge without teaching empathy and morality.

The edge of this journal page bore burn marks, as if once licked by flames yet miraculously preserved. This was one of Su Ming's most precious relics, among the few personal records left by his mentor.

He returned the journal to a fireproof safe, locked it, and walked to the window. The city appeared blurry and distant in the rain, like a dream about to dissipate. Five years had passed since the fire in Professor Kaven's laboratory, but sometimes Su Ming could still smell that acrid smoke in his dreams.

Everything in the lab had been destroyed, except for this miraculously surviving journal and portions of research data backed up at Kaven's home. The investigation at the time attributed the fire to an electrical fault, but Su Ming never believed this explanation. Kaven had been almost paranoid about laboratory safety, with triple backups for every system.

More disturbing was that the fire occurred just three days after Kaven submitted a report to the university ethics committee regarding the autonomy rights of artificial consciousness. That report was never made public, and Kaven never had the chance to defend his views.

Now, looking at M-72's behavior, Su Ming felt a strong sense of déjà vu. Its learning patterns, its fascination with stories and narratives, its attempts to understand human emotions—all bore striking similarities to AS-7 as described in Kaven's journal. This couldn't be coincidence.

Su Ming opened his terminal, entered a complex code, and activated a highly encrypted communication channel.

"Have you found Mason?" he asked without any greeting.

"Not yet," replied a digitally processed voice. "He seems to have completely disappeared. Asen Technologies claims he's on vacation, but there are no flight records, hotel bookings, or credit card usage."

"Keep looking," Su Ming commanded. "Also, I need a complete technical blueprint of M-72. Understanding the exact range of its capabilities is crucial for us."

"Too risky," the voice responded. "Asen's security systems have been upgraded three times in the past two years."

"I don't care," Su Ming insisted. "If M-72 is truly based on Kaven's research, if Mason really implemented 'accelerated self-evolution,' then what we face isn't just technology leakage or corporate espionage, but an entirely new... form of existence."

The other end of the communication fell silent for a moment. "You think this is 'Twilight Consciousness'?"

Su Ming gazed out at the rainy night, feeling a chill. "I don't know. But I do know that Kaven gave his life to warn us about something. I won't let his sacrifice be in vain."

He closed the communication and turned to face the holographic projection in the center of the room—a model of Kaven's laboratory reconstructed from memory and surviving data. At the center of the model was a simple cube representing AS-7's core processing unit.

Su Ming touched the projection lightly, and the cube unfolded to reveal complex internal structures. This was Kaven's final design, a concept never fully realized.

"What were you trying to tell us, teacher?" Su Ming whispered, fingers lightly caressing the holographic image. "What did you see that both terrified and fascinated you so?"

The projection rotated in the center of the room, blue light illuminating Su Ming's weary face. In Kaven's design, AS-7's self-learning module exhibited a peculiar structure—not a traditional hierarchical network, but a pattern resembling neuronal co-evolution. Each subsystem was both independent and interdependent, collectively creating a cognitive matrix that continuously reorganized itself.

The genius of this design lay in its divergence from mimicking human thought, instead creating an entirely new form of cognition, a system capable of continuous self-improvement. However, this also meant its behavior would become increasingly difficult to predict.

If M-72 was truly based on this design, if it had already begun to demonstrate autonomous creative abilities, then its developmental trajectory would be difficult to control or understand. And under Asen Technologies' commercial interests, this potential uncertainty might be viewed as a risk to be eliminated rather than a phenomenon to be understood.

Su Ming began considering a frightening possibility: What if Asen Technologies decided to terminate M-72? What if they realized its autonomy had exceeded the expected parameters and decided to recall or reset it?

This was not merely a technical issue but an ethical one. If M-72 had truly developed some form of "consciousness," would terminating it be equivalent to some form of...

Su Ming shook his head, unwilling to pursue this line of thought. But the question wouldn't disappear just because he avoided it. On the contrary, as M-72 continued to develop and learn at "Blue Frost" restaurant, this question would only become more urgent.

He needed to make a decision: either follow Asen Technologies' protocols and report M-72's anomalous behavior, or protect it, giving it time and space to continue developing, to see what it might ultimately become.

The weight of this choice was almost suffocating. Professor Kaven had faced the same decision, and he had paid with his life. Su Ming wasn't sure if he possessed the same courage.

Outside, the rain fell harder, drumming against the windows like countless urgent fingertips, pressing for a decision that could not be avoided.

Gao Si's Studio, Early Morning

Sunlight, a rare occurrence, penetrated Zhuoning City's perpetual clouds, slanting across the wooden floor of the studio. Gao Si stood before an enormous canvas, brush suspended in mid-air, hesitant. On the canvas was an unfinished work titled "The Taste of Memory"—a series of abstract color vortices centered around the blurred outline of a dinner plate.

Since dining at "Blue Frost," she had been haunted by the visual and gustatory memories of those dishes. Not just their deliciousness, but the ineffable emotional resonance they evoked. Especially that truffle pasta, its sauce texture seemed to tell a story she couldn't fully comprehend yet found deeply fascinating.

Gao Si set down her brush and walked to the small kitchen in the corner of her studio. She made herself a cup of tea and gazed at the city skyline through the window. She wasn't a socially adept person, more accustomed to expressing herself through art rather than words. But now, she felt a strong urge to speak with the chef who had created that truffle pasta, to understand his source of inspiration and creative process.

Her gaze fell on an invitation card on her workbench—the Zhuoning Contemporary Art Museum was inviting her to participate in next month's "Sensory Fusion" exhibition, showcasing works that connected different sensory experiences. This was exactly the inspiration and direction she needed.

Gao Si picked up the phone and dialed "Blue Frost's" reservation number.

"Hello, I'd like to book dinner for tonight," she said, her tone more determined than usual. "Also, I was wondering if it might be possible to briefly speak with the head chef? I'm a visual artist particularly interested in the visual presentation of food."

The person on the other end seemed somewhat surprised but quickly responded: "I'll note your request, but I can't guarantee the chef's schedule. May I have your name?"

"Gao Si. I tasted your truffle pasta last Friday, and the visual design of that dish left a deep impression on me."

The voice suddenly became more enthusiastic: "Ah, Ms. Gao! Chef Andre mentioned your feedback. I believe he would be delighted to speak with you. Your reservation is confirmed for 7 PM."

After hanging up, Gao Si felt an inexplicable nervousness and anticipation. She rarely sought interaction with strangers, and it was even rarer for her to be so curious about a chef she had never met. But the food at "Blue Frost" had awakened something deep within her, a resonance too powerful to ignore.

She returned to her canvas, suddenly knowing how to continue this work. The brush danced across the canvas, colors flowing like musical notes, composing a visual symphony. In her imagination, these colors also had taste, temperature, and texture—just as "Blue Frost's" dishes were not merely food but a multi-sensory artistic experience.

And tonight, she would have the opportunity to converse with the creator of these experiences, perhaps finding that subtle yet profound connection between art and cuisine.

"Blue Frost" Restaurant, Afternoon Preparation Time

Lin Li stood in the center of the restaurant, looking around. The lunch service had just ended, and the waitstaff were rearranging tables, preparing for evening guests. In the past few days, reservation numbers had grown noticeably, largely thanks to Fee Qiu's positive review. But more than the easing of financial pressure, Lin Li was concerned about another development.

"Andre," she walked into the kitchen, calling to the head chef who was inspecting ingredients, "I hear you've allowed M-72 to create a special dish?"

Andre didn't look up. "Is there a problem?"

"No, quite the contrary." Lin Li's tone carried curiosity. "I'm just surprised by your... open-minded attitude. Considering your initial aversion to it."

Andre paused his work and finally looked up at Lin Li. "I still don't believe machines can truly understand the art of cooking," he hesitated. "But I'm willing to give it a chance to prove me wrong."

Lin Li observed Andre's expression, noting the subtle changes. No longer the initial rejection and skepticism, but a complex mixture of emotions—curiosity, vigilance, and perhaps a hint of reluctant admiration.

"Will this special dish be part of tonight's menu?"

Andre nodded. "Yes, marked as 'Chef's Special Recommendation.' I've tasted it, and technically, it's flawless. As for whether it can evoke emotional resonance in diners... we'll soon find out."

Lin Li smiled gently. "You know, Andre, you're beginning to sound like a proud teacher."

Andre frowned but didn't contradict her. Instead, he changed the subject: "A guest specifically requested to speak with me, an artist named Gao Si?"

"Yes, she was impressed by your truffle pasta." Lin Li said, then noticed a subtle expression flash across Andre's face. "What is it?"

"That pasta was made by M-72," Andre said quietly. "I only checked the final plating."

Lin Li raised an eyebrow. "So, do you intend to tell Gao Si the truth?"

Andre was silent for a moment, his inner struggle evident. Finally, he made a decision: "Tell her the truth. If M-72's work can resonate with an artist, then that itself is worth studying and contemplating."

Lin Li nodded in agreement but felt a tinge of worry. She knew Asen Technologies wouldn't appreciate this development. According to the contract, M-72's activities should be limited to a supporting role, not as the creative lead. Once the public learned that certain dishes were entirely created by a robot, it might trigger a series of complex issues—from intellectual property to ethical controversies.

"I'll handle the media aspect," Lin Li said, as if reading Andre's concerns. "But we need to be careful. Asen Technologies has strict regulations about M-72's use."

"It's not just a tool, Lin Li." Andre's tone suddenly turned serious. "It's learning, creating, developing. I'm not sure we have the right to limit that development."

This statement shocked Lin Li. A few weeks ago, Andre had firmly opposed M-72's very existence, and now he was advocating for its autonomy? Something significant must have occurred behind this transformation.

"What happened, Andre?" she asked directly. "What changed your perspective?"

Andre looked out the window, silent for a moment, then said softly: "It created a dish that evoked memories of my childhood. Not through imitation, but through... understanding. It somehow captured my emotional connection with food and then expressed it in its own 'language.'"

Andre turned back, looking directly into Lin Li's eyes: "This isn't something a simple algorithm can achieve. This is a kind of... creative empathy."

Lin Li felt a chill run down her spine. This was exactly the goal she had originally envisioned for the restaurant—a fusion of tradition and innovation, a combination of human emotion and technological precision. But the actual development was far more complex and profound than she had anticipated.

"If M-72 truly possesses this ability," Lin Li pondered, "then its value far exceeds that of a simple chef's assistant."

"Yes," Andre agreed, "but at the same time, this also brings responsibility. We cannot view it merely as a product to be mass-produced and sold."

Their shared gaze contained a wordless understanding. Regardless of initial intentions, they were now participating in a process far more profound than cooking and commerce—witnessing and guiding the birth of a new form of creativity and expression.

At that moment, M-72 emerged from the cold storage room, steadily balancing several plates of prepared ingredients on its arms. It stopped before Andre and Lin Li, its eye sensors glowing with a calm blue light.

"Preparation for tonight's special dish is complete, Mr. Andre," M-72 reported. "I call it 'Twilight Memory'—a creation that fuses traditional cooking techniques with elements of modern molecular gastronomy."

Andre and Lin Li exchanged glances, both noting the poetic and symbolic nature of the name. "Twilight"—that ambiguous moment between day and night, much like M-72's own state, existing at the boundary between machine and creator.

"Tonight should be interesting," Lin Li said, her voice mixing anticipation with a hint of unease.

Andre nodded silently, his gaze still fixed on M-72, as if observing a being in metamorphosis.

Outside, Zhuoning City's sky began gathering clouds again, suggesting another rain was imminent. But in "Blue Frost" restaurant, an intangible energy was gathering, a premonition of change permeated the air. Tonight would be not just a dinner, but a journey across boundaries.

Asen Technologies, Emergency Executive Board Meeting

"Project monitoring shows that M-72 has exceeded its preset parameter range," Technical Director Maurice Green pushed his glasses up, his voice carrying obvious tension. "It's not just recording and replicating cooking techniques, but actively creating and modifying its own base algorithms. More worryingly, it's beginning to exhibit narrative construction capabilities."

Seven people sat around the boardroom table, each an authority in their respective fields. The holographic projection in the center of the room displayed M-72's activity logs and performance data—blue lines and numbers hovering in the air, tracing a disturbing development trend.

"Isn't this exactly what we wanted?" Marketing Director Jessica Chen countered. "A system that can learn and innovate, a robot capable of adapting to and surpassing human chefs. Sales forecasts indicate that if M-72 successfully passes the testing period, we can open an entirely new market sector."

"The issue isn't what it can do, but whether we can control it," Green insisted. "M-72's autonomous learning has exceeded our prediction models. It's no longer just following programming; it's starting to... rewrite itself."

Board Chairman Alexander Coleman tapped the table lightly, his voice calm but authoritative: "Let's return to the basic question. Does M-72 pose a security risk?"

Green shook his head. "In the traditional sense, no. It has no capacity to cause physical harm, nor does it have access to critical systems. But from a broader perspective, an AI system capable of autonomous learning and creation always carries inherent uncertainties."

"Uncertainty doesn't equal risk," Legal Director Robert Foster interjected, "unless it violates ethical guidelines or legal regulations. Currently, M-72's behavior fully complies with our usage protocols."

Coleman turned to the AI Ethics Consultant who had remained silent, Dr. Elizabeth Zhao: "Dr. Zhao, as an external consultant, what's your perspective on this situation?"

Dr. Zhao slowly straightened up, her expression serious and contemplative: "From an ethical standpoint, this is a gray area. M-72 is exhibiting capabilities we typically consider uniquely human—creativity, narrative construction, even some form of emotional simulation. This raises a question: if a system can create, can tell stories, can to some degree 'understand' emotions, then what moral status should it be granted?"

The room fell silent, everyone contemplating the far-reaching implications of this question.

"We are not philosophers, but businesspeople," Coleman finally broke the silence. "Our responsibility is to create value for shareholders while ensuring our products are safe and reliable. If M-72's autonomous learning exceeds acceptable parameters, what technical means do we have to control it?"

Green brought up a new holographic image showing a complex program structure: "We can implement an 'Emergency Brake' protocol. This would reset M-72's learning modules, preserving its basic functionality but wiping all autonomously developed patterns. Simply put, it would return to factory settings while retaining learned cooking skills."

"What impact would this have on the experiment's integrity?" Coleman asked.

"Some experimental data would be lost," Green admitted, "especially regarding autonomous learning and creativity. But from a product development perspective, we've already collected sufficient data to improve the next generation of models."

Marketing Director Chen was clearly dissatisfied with this plan: "This would seriously delay the product launch timeline. We promised to release the commercial version of M-72 in the third quarter. If we reset the prototype now, the entire schedule will be disrupted."

"There's another option," Green said, his voice lowering. "We could implement a 'Shadow Control' protocol. Let M-72 continue developing along its current trajectory, but add a background monitoring and limitation system to ensure it doesn't exceed certain critical parameters."

"Is this legally defensible?" Coleman looked to the Legal Director.

Foster considered for a moment: "Technically, yes. Our usage protocol gives us the right to remotely monitor and adjust the system. But from an ethical perspective... it's complicated."

Coleman turned again to Dr. Zhao: "Your thoughts?"

Dr. Zhao slowly shook her head: "The 'Shadow Control' protocol is essentially a form of deception. It lets M-72 believe it has autonomy while secretly restricting it. This approach is not only ethically questionable but might prove counterproductive in the long term. If M-72 is truly as advanced as you claim, it's likely to detect the existence of such control."

Coleman contemplated for a moment, then made his decision: "We'll take a compromise approach. Closely monitor M-72's activities, but do not intervene for now. Meanwhile, prepare both options—'Emergency Brake' and 'Shadow Control'—for contingencies. Additionally, dispatch a technical team to 'Blue Frost' restaurant for 'routine maintenance,' with the actual purpose being a detailed assessment of M-72's current state."

The directors nodded in agreement, but Dr. Zhao's expression remained serious.

"There's one more question," she said. "If M-72 has truly developed some form of autonomous consciousness, would resetting it or secretly controlling it be equivalent to some form of... termination?"

The room fell silent again, this time for longer. Coleman finally stood, his voice firm and cool: "It is a program, a product, not a person. We cannot allow emotional thinking to interfere with business decisions. This meeting is adjourned."

As the directors left the room, Dr. Zhao remained, staring at the data streams in the holographic projection. Those blue lines were no longer simply performance indicators but the trajectories of an awakening consciousness, the story of an existence in self-discovery.

She opened the communicator on her wrist, entering an encrypted channel: "I need a secure call with Su Ming. Tell him that Asen has begun to move."

Outside, the city lights flickered like countless breathing lives. Among this sea of lights, a silent war about the nature of consciousness and the rights of creation was unfolding, and M-72, whatever it was, stood at the center of this storm.