Machine Learning: New and Collected Stories

Machine Learning: New and Collected Stories

A collection of shockingly prescient stories covering topics from aliens to AI, including some that have never before been seen, from the New York Times best-selling author of the Silo trilogy Hugh Howey is known for crafting riveting and immersive page-turners of boundless imagination, spawning millions of fans worldwide, first with his best-selling novel Wool, and then with other enthralling works such as Sand and Beacon 23 .   Now comes Machine Learning , an impressive collection of Howey’s science fiction and fantasy short fiction, including three stories set in the world of Wool , two never-before-published tales written exclusively for this volume, and fifteen additional stories collected here for the first time. "Glitch" asks what happens when a battle bot refuses to fight. “The Automated Ones” introduces ideas of discrimination in a world populated by both humans and AI, and its sequel “WHILE (u > i) i –;” explores the challenges a human woman and an android face after falling in love. In "Select Character" a new mother who is bored with being stuck at home starts playing her husbands' video game according to her own rules-- and makes a surprising discovery. These stories explore everything from artificial intelligence to parallel universes to video games, and each story is accompanied by an author’s note exploring the background and genesis of each story.   Howey’s incisive mind makes Machine Learning: New and Collected Stories a compulsively readable and thought-provoking selection of short works—from a modern master at the top of his game.   "Howey’s writing is taut and immersive, and his characters’ perspectives will fascinate, no matter how inhuman they are." - Publishers Weekly "Each story is followed by insightful author's notes. A thoroughly engaging collection with a dark sense of humor but its finger always on the pulse of genuine human concerns." - Kirkus Reviews Hugh Howey is the  New York Times  and  USA Today  bestsell­ing author of the Silo Series:  Wool ,  Shift , and  Dust ;  Beacon 23 ;  Sand ;  Half Way Home ; and  Machine Learning . His works have been translated into more than forty languages and have sold millions of copies world­wide. Adapted from his bestselling sci-fi trilogy,  Silo  is now streaming on Apple TV+ and Beacon 23 is streaming on MGM+. Howey lives in New York with his wife, Shay. 1  It was difficult to sleep at night, wishing good men dead. This was but one of the hurtful things I felt in my bones and wished I could ignore. It was an ugly truth waving its arms that I turned my gaze from, that I didn't like to admit even to myself. But while my bag warmed me with the last of its power and my breath spilled out in white plumes toward the roof of our tent, while the flicker of a whisper stove melted snow for midnight tea, I lay in that dead zone above sixty thousand feet and hoped not just for the failure of those above me, but that no man summit and live to tell the tale. Not before I had my chance. It was a shameful admission, one I nearly raised with Hanson, my tent mate, to see in the wrinkles of his snow-beat face whether this was a guilt shared. I suspected it was. In the mess tents and around the yellow craters we dubbed latrines, the look among us was that only one would be remembered. The rest would die alone in the snow or live a long life forgotten ' and not one of us would've been able to explain to a child the difference. Frozen to death by altitude or by time was all the same. The truth was this: History remembers the first, and only the first. These are the creeping and eternal glaciers, the names etched across all time like scars in granite cliffs. Those who came after were the inch or two of snowdrift that would melt in due time. They would trickle, forgotten, into the pores of the earth, be swallowed, and melt snow at the feet of other forgotten men. It was a quarter past Eno's midnight and time to get up. If Shubert and Humphries were to make it to the top, they likely would've by now. If any of their gear still worked, they would be radioing in their victory, taking the first pictures of starlit peaks wrinkling far past the limits of sight. By now, they would know how many fingers and toes it cost them, how much oxygen was left in their tanks, whether or not they would live to speak of the mountain's conquest. The faint odor of tea penetrated my dark thoughts. It must've been a potent brew to smell it at all. We had already scaled beyond the heights where taste and scent fade to oblivion. One had to remind himself to eat and drink, for the stomach is one of those organs that know when to quit. It is the first, in fact, to go. The mind of the climber is the last. Hanson brought me tea. I wormed a single arm out into the cold, though my heating bag had become a feeble thing. I did not want to lose what little it held. I coughed into my fist, that persistent cough of the dead zone, and accepted the steaming mug. There