Constellation: Dwarf Piss. (Patreon)

  “Constellation is now aware of the game world, and is currently in the process of updating the game,” Director Laurens began speaking from her place at the head of the long meeting table.

   “I’m sorry, but what the hell are you talking about?” Frank swore, scattering one of the piles of papers he’d prepared. He twisted in his seat to give the Director an incredulous look. “Aware? Updating to what specifications, exactly?”

   A large, somewhat overweight man with closely cropped hair and a drooping mustache, Frank wore an undershirt and jeans and gestured with burly arms when he spoke. He looked incredibly out of place among the suits-and-ties present, like a blue-collar handyman worker rather than Starfield’s Head of Development.

   “To our projected specifications,” Director Laurens narrowed her eyes. “Constellation is making enormous strides in feature implementation, from what the Cons team is telling us.”

   “Projected specifications? That’s a rather brilliant Starfield company oxymoron. Can the development team receive any ‘projected specifications’ in writing, please?” Frank snorted. “You and your little Cons, what an apt descriptor. More than three hundred different new data tables for non-player entities alone in one day. Maybe thousands for player characters. Those aren’t features, they’re fiascos. You do realize the stat format we’ve worked on for the past three years isn’t gonna be compatible with this ‘update?’ Or, did that not fit with your projections?”

   “Excuse me, Director,” Another voice, Mr. Sullivan from legal spoke up. “When you say ‘aware,’ do you mean ‘self-aware?’ Supposedly, the Constellation system is categorically not an AI, so... some distinctions need to be made, or the regulatory committee’ll have a field day with us.”

   In contrast with Frank, Mr. Sullivan was a handsome, clean cut and almost cruel-looking man with cold eyes. He looked serious, and because of that his dark sense of humor was more likely to send someone into a panic than it was to elicit a nervous chuckle.

   “Constellation operates as an artificial intelligence alternative,” Director Laurens sighed. “The committee confirmed this status with the military liaison last January.”

   “Well, they’ll definitely want to confirm it again if they get wind of this,” Dr. Allen, head of the Constellation team tapped a finger pointedly at the recent Cons log in front of him—a codex several inches thick. He was a balding man who wore large glasses and an annoyed expression. “I’m afraid Mr. Sullivan is correct. If there’s been any, say, ‘changes’ to Constellation, that could now classify it as an artificial intelligence, we could face—”

   “Constellation is now working at a higher capacity,” the Director explained patiently. “Whereas before, Cons was operating in a limited cognitive state. It is not—and never will be—an artificial intelligence.”

   “With all due respect, I feel that me, and my team, deserve a better answer than that,” Dr. Alans said. “Because this log here is just our so-called ‘relevant event,’ right up to when you... graciously paused Cons logging for us. Since we restarted the log, my team’s been working through three more packets this same size—possibly larger—and that could be the new daily output of processes from here on out. You’re going to struggle to convince any board that Constellation’s ‘creative computive thinking’ isn’t artificially intelligent.”

   “The answer you want is out of my hands, I’m sorry,” the Director shook her head. “The military liaison for the Constellation system will arrive early on Monday, and you can address your concerns to him.”

   “Great. Classified.” Frank barked out laughter on the other side of the table. “Great! To be totally Frank with you—and I always am—this is a disaster, and we’re going to have to either roll back the system, or apply for an AI license and play by the committee’s rules for it. Which is what everyone here came flocking to Starfield to avoid. Worse yet, this Cons system doesn’t know what it’s doing. Far as I can tell, none of the new table sets are remotely relevant to core game functionality. It’s all bloat.”

   “Dives are currently operating within normal parameters,” Director Laurens said in a stiff tone. “We have fifteen devs dived-in and performing basic tests as we speak. The new table entries are staying, and the system framework will be adjusted to work with all of the new parameters.”

   “Madam Director, you may have built this system around Constellation and take its processes as word of God, but the development team definitely does not,” Frank crossed his arms. “You’re basically asking us to scrap years of our framework on this random whim from Cons. Adjustment? Adjusted by who?” Frank demanded. “By us? Or, by Constellation?”

   “By coordination between the development team and the Constellation team,” the Director answered, looking coldly from Frank to Dr. Allen.

   “Great. Fine,” Frank shook his head with a chuckle. “Sorry, Director, sorry Doctor—but, I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to tell the writers until I have the new specifications your not-an-intelligence thinks it’s dreaming up. We were on top of everything before Cons added all these new tables, and things were looking great for us to start pre-Alpha. Any adjustments I make will be removing unnecessary tables and putting us right back to where we were. Doctor?”

   “We’re... working through the log,” Dr. Allen let out an exasperated sigh of his own. “But, we weren’t warned about anything like this, and we’re not prepared for this.”

   “We’re straying from the real issue, here,” Their head lawyer Mr. Sullivan waggled his copy of the thick Cons log for emphasis. “Creative computive thinking is one thing, but if Cons is applying creative computive thinking, on hundreds of tasks at once like this, then, honestly—we need to roll it back, somehow. Whatever little distinction you have that says Cons isn’t an AI, well, the committee’s not going to care. The military won’t care, either.”     

   “He’s right,” Doctor Allen agreed, shaking his head. “Realistically, if this ‘alternative’ is matching or exceeding the performance of actual AI, the military liaison is going to take Constellation from us, and we’re not likely to ever get it back.” 

   “Which puts us back at square zero looking for either an AI license, or a massive network of basic processors,” Frank pointed out. “The likes of which I don’t imagine ever being feasible for a full-sensory-dive project. Certainly not one of this scale.”

   “We’re not going to roll back the system,” the Director lowered her voice to a tone that was almost threatening. “The military liaison is eminently aware of what Constellation was capable of. They are never taking Cons away from me. Prepare copies of the log data for him, and keep him abreast of the changes. Lawton?”

   “Rest of the writing team is still reading through the log,” Lawton admitted, finally breaking his silence. He had a copy of the Cons log open and had been silently perusing it himself throughout the meeting. “A lot of it’s… uh, very technical, though. I don’t think there’s anything we can tell you ‘till the Cons team has some documentation for us.”

   “Ha!” Frank barked out a laugh. “That’ll be the day. Cons team didn’t write the code, and they’re not gonna have notation for ya. All they do—no offense, Allen—is feed data and models into Director Lauren’s magical mystery macguffin, this Schrödinger's box which may or may not contain an AI writing trillions of lines of code.”

   Although if it IS an AI, and Laurens is hiding it from the international committee, it could turn out to be Pandora’s box instead, Frank shook his head mirthfully. When he caught Mr. Sullivan’s eye, he could tell from the lawyer’s frown that he was thinking the same thing.

   “AI alternative,” Director Laurens corrected him with an icy tone. “I’d like to remind you that any careless remarks outside this room regarding what you think Cons is or isn’t would have very serious consequences.”

*     *     *

   “Put me in the bookings, lad,” Frank sighed. He was barging in, unannounced, into the capsule chamber again. It was an occurrence more frequent than he cared to admit, but he needed to let off some steam. Most players would be jumping into the game for the same reasons, so he liked to think that he was in an ideal state for testing.

   “Right away, Lord Fyre,” one of the devs acting as technician smiled, opening up the dive schedule to edit the listing so that, in appearance at least, it looked like he’d properly requested a scheduled slot hours ago.

   Neither of the dive techs on duty were ‘one of his boys,’ so he didn’t feel any satisfaction in being called Lord Fyre. The one booking him in was Miller, setting himself up in-game as some sort of Human legionnaire heroic-type—which seemed rather lonely at this stage of the game, without any NPC soldiers to actually form a hierarchy under him. The other dev acting as dive tech was Danny, an ex-park ranger of some sort. Danny wasn’t on of any of the teams, and was probably some kind of actual druid hermit even before getting hired by Starfield company.

   The developers of today, for the most part, knew less code and programming than any generation of devs before them in history. The current business model popular among game companies would use a specialized think-tank team to train up an artificial intelligence over a long period of many years, which could then effortlessly write and cough out game after game after game. 

   Although he was now cognizant in some of the programming language Cons used, Frank was first and foremost what he called a Historical Engineer. Starting from a backyard forge and home smithy and graduating to a fully independent custom machine shop, he’d always loved finding simple solutions to complex problems. Applying his knowledge to things in a hands-on, practical approach was his forte, and in-game that translated to overseeing everything medieval mechanical, all things with moving parts from hinges and locks to wheel structures and axles.

   Many of the devs were likewise selected for their specialized fields of knowledge, from cold-weapon combat experts to primitive survivalists, fantasy geeks and architectural engineers. The world Constellation gave them started out rather rough around the edges, but over months and months of diligent interaction, the dev teams adjusted parameters and feedback until the game was taking greatest advantage of full-sensory-dive technology.

   Then, of course, Cons practically starts us all over again. Frank frowned, correcting his gait before he selected an empty pod. It certainly felt like he was lumbering along sometimes, a habit he fell into the more he got into the dive mindset. He was only chubby out here in real life; in-game he was unapologetically huge and fat.

   “Lot of calls?” Frank asked.

   “Nonstop,” Miller admitted with a grin. “From your dorfs, especially. They have me resetting the same table cells over and over again. Whatever they’re doing, it sounds hilarious.”

   “Hmph,” Frank gave out a noncommittal grunt as he clambered into the neuro-capsule. “Least they’re workin’. Send me to ‘em.”

*     *     *

   “What the f**** are you little s**** on about?” Lord Fyre Rank bellowed, stomping down the stone halls of Byssifel one brawny leg at a time. As Dwarven forge king, his body was wide and squat, where fat and muscle bulged against one another on a frame proven to be harder than the very stone within which he’d carved his kingdom. “F****** Constellation. Damned fool Director. F***!”

   The Constellation system which monitored spoken vulgarities and immediately bleeped over them was by and far the most rigorously tested system in the entire domain. Workarounds were possible, of course, and some of the more creative ‘lore-friendly’ curses were even encouraged. Frank wasn’t in the mood for them right now.

   “Praaaise the Constellation! Praise the stars!” One of his dwarf devs yelled out, and not a moment later one of the other six dwarves joined in, calling out in agreement.

   “Praise the Constellation! Raise yer mugs, boys!”

   “F*** the Constellation!” Lord Fyre Rank roared, slapping a mug of ale out of the dwarf’s hand. “F*** all of you! What the blighted stone are you sh*** on about? Are those tears I see, Gremm? Did that twice-cursed f*** of a blighted s***stain Constellation implement g***** actual crying, now?! Shut all of your stinkin’ bogs, all of ye!”

   “What, whassat?” One of his dwarven heroes, Ironbraid, laughed uproariously. “Our Lord Fyre speaks, but we know not the words what come out! Haaah!” He threw his empty mug in Frank’s direction.

   “Shaddup, you blighted bog fart!” Lord Fyre Rank deftly snatched the flying tankard out of the air and hurled it back into Ironbraid’s broad dwarven face with enough force to send the fellow flying back head-over heels. A red damage value of 353 bled off the dwarf and into the air for a moment before dissipating. Not bad, for an empty mug—it paid to be head dev.

   “The Constellation s**** all over us, and what the pit are you gobs doing about it? Drinking Dwarf Piss? We have three hundred blighted new tables to write up before the end of tha month! Three hundred!”

   “No, praise the great Constellation!” A dwarf jumped up, roused from his stupor. “Praise the tables!” The six other dwarves rose up in a hearty cheer of agreement.

   Most of the time, Frank was damned proud of his close circle of fellow devs in his team—dev team dorf, responsible for designing and testing almost every single weapon and contraption in the game. They took their job seriously, and more than anything else were passionate about maintaining immersion in the game itself, keeping to the lore.

   Or at the very least, being damn convincing making up the lore as they go. This hadn’t been the first time his group had remained in-character while pretending to be inebriated well beyond what they called ‘stone-cold-dwarf-drunk,’ but it was certainly getting to be the most annoying.

   “No such thing as Dwarf Piss anymore, boss!” Gremm called out, wiping tears from his eyes. “S’all good and proper now. Praise the Constellation, it’s turned the Dwarf Piss into proper spirits.”

   “Proper spirits?” Lord Fyre Rank demanded, turning his glare towards Gremm. “What the f*** are you on about, dwarf?”

   “Milla!” Gremm called out, jamming a stubby finger into his own ear. “Milla!”

   “Miller, here,” their capsule room technician responded.

   “Reset ‘em! Resell table cell 5991, cell 5995, an’ sail da 6214, if ya please. All of tha boys.”

   “Roger, resetting table cells 5991, 5995, and 6214 for participants of dev team dorf. Again. Stand by.”

   There was an awkward, somehow bleary moment as each of the dwarves looked around at other in silence, and then it happened; the six of them all seemed to straighten up in unison simultaneously, and their eyes went wide with fresh clarity.

   “Holy f*** does that never get old,” Ironbraid laughed, straightening out his beard. “‘Nother ale, anyone?”

   “We’ve been testing tha new, uh, tha sobriety table cells,” Gremm wiped the last tears from his eyes and then gestured towards where his fellow devs were enthusiastically setting up new mugs for ale. “Rigorously.”

   “You’re all puttin’ me on,” Lord Fyre Rank’s eyes narrowed to thin slits.

   There was no such thing as in-game alcohol. As far as he knew, it was impossible to apply in-game.

   “Nay!” Gremm laughed. “Server’s simulatin’ spirits for real now, instead o’ servin’ up Dwarf Piss. Gonna have to learn all the ack-shul lore names of these diff’rent Dwarvy drinks what we’ve been sampling, now.”

   Lord Fyre Rank looked from dwarf to dwarf in disbelief. Ever since the Dwarven hall had first been generated, their respawning casks of ale had been nothing but bitter-tasting water. Even then, they still drank it from time to time; simply for the hell of it, because that’s what proper dwarves did. It had grown into a rite of passage for newly hired devs. Calling it Dwarf Piss had actually been generous; the stuff was really nasty.

   Was.

   “That’s... impossible,” Lord Fyre Rank swiped up one of the nearby casks, realized it was empty with a single shake, and grabbed for another one. He thought it had smelled different in here. “The blighted legal team would soil themselves. Players drinking for real? They’ll never allow it. How the hell is it even simulated? What, does the neuro-capsule disrupt yer brain signals?”

   “Not that Miller will admit,” one of the other dwarves said. “We’re getting new signals, and experiencing slight um, what we call, uh—player lag.”

   “Aye, praise the stars,” Gremm nodded. “Seems like it’s a work in progress, though. Table cell fer 6214’s a setting what makes you feel full, like you can’t drink anymore. But, pissin’s restricted, and we can’t bluerrgh it back up yet, either. Miller says the value in that table doesn’t decrease over time, though, so we’re not sure what it’s s’posed to represent.”

   “Player alcohol content restriction, maybe?” Lord Fyre Rank guessed. “Maybe it resets between dives? Can you drink anything non-alcoholic after that table value caps?”

   “Who tha hell has time ta test that?!” A dwarf sang out, downing another mug of ale to pumping fists and boisterous cheers of agreement.

   “Just stay sober ‘nuff to call up to the stars and have ‘im reset the table cells for ye,” Ironbraid chuckled. “This Dwarven ale kicks, it right lays ye flat. So far, Gremm’s saved all our sorry hides, what, six? Seven times?”

   “Praise the stars!”

   “Praaaise the great Constellation!”

   Lord Fyre Rank took his first swig of ale and rolled the new concoction over his tongue.

   That’s… wow. Pretty damned good stuff, he decided, suitably impressed. If Constellation was using hundreds of extra data tables to define flavor specifics and carefully calculating game world libations... then hell, who was he to complain?

   The real question is… what the hell kind of data did those Cons team eggheads put into Constellation to make it understand? Is this something an ‘artificial intelligence alternative’ can actually reproduce…?

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