Binary, page 8
I shut the door and scrambled to find an appropriate outfit, hoping she was not disappointed with me for oversleeping. I could not afford to let them down. At least I knew the sensation of fearing failure.
I got dressed and zoomed into the bathroom for a quick glance at my hair. A tangle of neither ebony nor white hair. It was somewhere in between, and I did not have time to fix it. A quick tease was all it got before I grabbed a lab coat from the closet and exited the room. Another moment in life I was grateful I neither needed, nor cared, for makeup.
I hustled through the unused office with a leather-bound notebook in hand. I had not sat in the chair, gone through the desk, or checked the computer’s files. Yet there I was, getting ready to play psychiatrist to an artificial intelligence not even its creators understood.
“This is going to be a train wreck,” I muttered.
Fearful thoughts crept my mind as I moved into the hallway. It was downright scary, and I would not miss it for the world.
10-2
Moments away
Hurried footsteps rushed me down the hallway toward the laboratory.
“Wrong way, Alexis,” called Dr. Crane.
I turned to see her at the Social Room door.
My fists balled so I could shake them in front of me, gritting my teeth and squinting my face. “Grrrr...”
“Relax,” said Dr. Crane.
“I can’t help it,” I said. “I’m freaking out.”
Dr. Crane snickered. “I see why Dr. Landry likes you so much.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because you have spunk and a somewhat dizzy personality,” she answered.
“Dizzy?” I looked to the ceiling. “That can’t be good.”
“It’s exactly what we need around here.” Dr. Crane entered The Social Room’s decontamination corridor. “We’ll be getting you an all-access pass like this in the next few days.”
I entered behind her. The door shut, and the corridor went black for several seconds before overhead lights buzzed into existence. My eyes shifted towards the ceiling. Dr. Crane’s followed suit. I thought it would be the beginning of an awkward moment of silence, but that changed when I examined her under the ultraviolet lights.
She was not one to bother with makeup. Imperfections on her aged face highlighted under deep-purple lighting: her teeth and eyes seemed to glow, her freckles appeared darker, her white lab coat shined like a beacon, and a piece of fuzz in her eyebrow stuck out like a sore thumb. I had to pluck it.
“Um...” Dr. Crane pulled back. “Boundaries?”
“You have a...” I stopped. “It’s just that you have this...”
I leaned in to pluck it free before she could move out of the way again, holding it in the light. “See.”
Dr. Crane released a forced, uncomfortable giggle. She watched as I looked around the small corridor to change the subject.
“This is what,” I asked, “a level three containment protocol?”
“It is,” she answered. “This room used to be a biohazard lab.”
The ultraviolet lights silenced themselves without warning. We were once again immersed in darkness, leaving only the floor beneath my feet and Dr. Crane’s voice to entertain the senses.
“We didn’t see any reason to deactivate the decontamination system,” continued Dr. Crane. “So, we leave it.”
The regular overhead lights turned back on, and a blast of fog purged itself into the room, startling me. I released an embarrassing screech. It had not happened in the other decontamination corridors. I turned to the doctor for answers.
“It’s our own formula,” said Dr. Crane.
My cheeks flushed red. “Micro-aerosol decontamination?”
“Non-toxic,” she answered. “It’s harmless.”
The fog ceased as a small green light appeared on the door at the opposite end. There was a high-pitched beep before the door’s seal broke, and a panel opened behind us. Small fans powered up and sent the decontamination fog surging into the room ahead.
Dr. Crane signaled towards the room.
10-3
The Social Room
We followed the smoky substance in. It momentarily blurred my vision and took its time dissipating as I emerged from it.
“You don’t like it, do you?” asked Dr. Crane.
“Like what?” I asked in return.
“The decontamination station,” she answered.
“No,” I answered. “It’s my least favorite thing so far.”
“If that’s your only complaint,” she said, “I’d say we’re doing well.”
I examined the Social Room. It held only a stainless-steel table that was bolted to the tile floor and two matching chairs. Everything but them and a large mirror on the wall at our right were a glossy-white.
I was anxious, tapping at my notebook as I rounded the large table. Time slowed.
“You said it was safe, right?” I asked. “It’s not going to hurt me?”
She walked to the large mirror mounted on the wall and tapped it with the knuckle of her pointer finger. “We’ll be right in there if anything happens.”
I nodded, a forced attempt to pull some veil over my inexperience with real-world applications. I knew the proverbial cat was out of the bag regarding my fears, though practical experience was the only thing I lacked. My hands felt as if they were shaking, but they were rock-steady.
Dr. Crane walked back to the door.
“Hey.” I fumbled for the words when she turned. “I want you to know that I’m honored to be here, and I’ll do my best not to let anyone down.”
Dr. Crane approached at a snail’s pace. Tension lingered with every step—a linguistic assassin prepping a perfect strike.
“Let’s assess,” she said. “You set a record when you graduated at nine years old after Professor Platz took you in, and your education never slowed. By ten you were in the most advanced schooling program the world offered. At almost twelve, The Institute accepted you with open arms. Over the thirteen years that followed, you excelled in computer theory, cybernetics, robotic design and engineering, integrated human factors, natural language processing, advanced artificial intelligence applications, robopsychology, and end-use application.” She was circling me like a shark. “You devoted your free time to furthering your education on the philosophy of artificial intelligence to blend it with human psychology, while somehow finding time to give seminars on cognitive science.”
Dr. Crane moved to my front again, turning to face me with a drawn-out pause. “You’re quite possibly the most intelligent person gracing this planet.” She made her way to the door and never looked back. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
I watched the door close behind her. She had taken an immense weight from my shoulders and placed it somewhere far from sight so it could no longer distract me. I could have hugged her.
There was one decision left to make. The chair farthest from the door was the obvious choice. When the machine walked into the room, I could face it. I wanted to be as comfortable physically as I was mentally. So, I slid off the lab coat and draped it over the back of the furthest chair before sitting.
I waited. An eternity passed before I heard the decontamination system firing up again. My heart raced. Time between each breath lengthened and my eyelids locked in a widened state. Pupils fixated on the metallic door in front of me. My essence had glued itself to an instant yet to arrive.
How intelligent was it going to be? Was it going to be emotional? Did it have desires? Could they be fulfilled? Could it be angered?
These were the questions active within me as the decontamination process went underway. Any moment, it was going to step out. I was going to be the first person to hold a title of therapist for an alien intelligence system. My thoughts needed ordering.
The decontamination process took its time. The room got claustrophobic. Its walls crashed in on me, constricting my breaths, forcing me not to inhale. Another minute and I was going to burst at the seams, but the door’s lock rotated.
Chapter 11
First session
THE HIGH-PITCHED SOUND of escaping air shot from the corridor. A hazy cloud of fog surged from the breaking seal. It lingered, but there was no sign of my patient.
I stood from my chair and eased around the table a little to peer beyond the door, waiting for a glimpse of the mechanical man. The fog was thick.
Then it happened: the automated A.I. system stepped in as the door shut, freezing in place as soon as it saw me. I was waiting for it to say something, anything, but the words never came. I was uneasy, alarmed to be in the room alone with it.
I was no longer isolated in body or emotions. There was something about the way it looked at me. Perhaps it was fighting panic more than I was.
My mouth moved. I almost said something... almost.
I reminded myself to be brave. The leading scientists were watching me from the other side of the two-way mirror. I could not allow my fears to bully me into submission, and I was not about to let it cost me a position on The Project.
A single thought formed before I held out my hand and approached it—Don’t be a chicken.
It looked at me as if it were trying to figure out the last few pieces of a complicated jigsaw puzzle, but from my end of the world, it was he who was complex. As difficult as understanding the human body and its central nervous system is to most of humanity, the machine was twice-fold that to me.
I was sure of one thing in my approach: if I wanted to tap into its artificial intelligence system and find out what its limits were, I needed to speak to it as if it were a “he,” not an “it.”
“Hello, Bruce,” I said. “My name’s—”
“Alexis,” it interrupted with heavy robotic tone.
I moved towards it. The machine took a small step back, as frightened of me as I was of it. Cautiousness was key. I approached the way one does a strange dog: slowly, carefully, and with my hand out in front of me. The thing never moved. It never spoke or gave way to any signs it planned to move. It stared at me the same way it had the first time we met.
The plastic, rubbery skin stretched taut over its metallic skeletal system, face, and body. I thought it would limit its mobility, but it did not. Makeshift skin bunched up and twisted throughout its neck when it looked at the table to its left.
The doctors had given it pink nurse’s scrubs to wear.
“Hold out your hand,” I said. “Like mine.”
Its head followed its eyes to my hand, then back up before returning to my hand again. I knew what it was thinking. It was deciding whether to trust me.
I was not sure if it was having trouble processing information or experiencing difficulties deciding. It was taking its time. I could tell the mechanized man had never experienced a handshake before.
“It’s okay,” I whispered.
I suppressed nervousness as the machine reached its hand out for mine, looking me in the eye. Our hands came together, and I wrapped my fingers around a palm I expected to be cold. He looked back down and curled his fingers around my hand for a tender grasp.
There was something about it... something about him... I could not figure it out, but when he looked back up at me, there was something warm, kindhearted, and loving behind those big, blue, organic eyes. They were affecting me. My breaths became shallow.
I gestured towards the table and walked to the chair next to my folder. “Join me?”
It went to the chair across from me to find there was not enough space between the chair and table for it to sit down. His head went back and forth between the chair and the table, taking subtle sidesteps between them. Back and forth. Over and over for a moment.
“Look.” I pulled out my chair. “Like this.”
Its head tilted to the side as it watched me... as... he... watched me take a seat. Then he walked to the back of the chair and pulled it away from the table. He could learn through observation alone, possibly at an incredible rate.
Or maybe not.
He had pulled the chair too far from the table before sitting down. There was a large space in front of him. I tried not to giggle as he dissected the situation, but it seeped out, causing him to look at me with solid interest.
“You are Alexis,” the machine... Bruce... stated with confidence.
I giggled. “Yes.”
I was sure Dr. Crane and Dr. Landry were laughing from the other side of the two-way mirror as well.
“Where are we?” asked Bruce.
“This is what they refer to as the Social Room,” I answered.
He looked at the four corners of the room and studied the environment carefully. His movements were jerky and not yet perfected.
“I know it’s empty now,” I said, “but I figured you could help me decide what to decorate it with.”
“Why are we here?” asked Bruce.
“You’re here because you’re amazing,” I answered, “and I’m here to make sure things go smoothly for you.”
There was a long pause before he responded. Sadness filled his eyes. “Am I in trouble?”
“No,” I answered.
“I have too many thoughts and questions,” said Bruce. “I do not know which to say... which to ask.”
I nodded. “Welcome to free will.”
“It is confusing,” he said.
“Hmmm...” I released a half smile. “Sounds like we know what to work on first, don’t we?”
“Work on?” asked Bruce.
“We’ve got to get you focused,” I answered. “Get your proverbial psyche in order.”
“Psyche,” he said. “Psychology. Psychoanalysis: the psychological structure of a person, especially as a motive force. The second emanation of The One, regarded as a universal consciousness and as the animating principle of the world.”
“If you want a dictionary regurgitation of only a few of the many interpretations of it,” I said. “Then yeah.”
“How would you have answered?” asked Bruce.
It was a good question, but not one I had ever planned on explaining to a machine. It was a delicate stage in his development and not one for miscalculations or misinformation.
“By another definition,” I answered, “it’s the totality of the human mind.”
Its eyes flicked about to match the components turning in his head. There’s something fascinating about watching a curious machine that was not programmed to be curious, but organically so. Bruce, as they called him, was the most advanced form of cybernetics the world had never seen; and that moment, with his curiosity, told me his A.I. was going to prove itself mind-boggling.
He had a natural cognitive ability that his curiosity would only add to as he matured. There was no way I could have known how far he would progress or how good he would become at problem-solving once he absorbed information from the world around him.
“What is it to you?” asked Bruce
“It’s part of our soul,” I answered. “Part of what makes us human.”
“Do I have a soul?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Bruce.” I answered. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”
The complex creation of liquid lines, artificial neural pathways, circuitry, titanium, and a bit of the unknown was watching my hand as I wrote in my leather folder, studying every action. His hand mimicked mine.
“What is it?” I asked.
“What is what?” he asked in return.
“You’re copying me,” I answered.
“Yes,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
His head drifted to the left and wobbled before he looked back at me. “I do not know.”
I could not accept the fact he did not have a pre-programmed reason for mimicking my movements. It was not possible for him to fantasize or daydream. Not to my knowledge. Perhaps he was trying to increase small motor dexterity or attempting to adapt movements and patterns that were more human. Either way, a machine had told me a lie.
I knew he had a reason for copying me. He must have been trying to understand me. To learn. That had to be it. He was trying to bridge the gap between the visual differences dividing his movements from those around him—an attempt to move as seamless as humans do.
“Do you want to learn something?” I asked.
“I do,” he answered.
I held up my hand and formed the symbol for the letter ‘A’ in American sign language. “Hold up your hand like mine.”
He matched my movement after a moment of working his fingers into position as I explained to him what the shape represented.
We made it to the letter ‘G’ and his inept finger movements found their way into the correct position each time. That was as far as we got before he stopped and lowered his arm, looking at the surface of his makeshift skin. He took a moment to study my arm, then his own.
Bruce was breaking down data on himself for the first time. He moved his limbs about and watched the tight, rubbery skin bunching up at the pits of his elbows, rubbing the wrinkling skin with his fingers as he bent his arm.
I made a note in my logbook:
‘His first realization.’
I was watching, taking notes as fast as ink would flow from my pen, but it was so hard to take my eyes off him. He did not look real. He did not move like he was alive, but something about him was.
The sight of his temporary flesh bewildered him. I watched as he searched the inner workings of his makeshift mind for answers. “Is this why people look at me strangely?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“We are not alike,” answered Bruce.
“No,” I said. “We’re not.”
His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something. I knew what it was. I could sense the troubles understanding the difference between a living and non-living being manifesting in the conversation. The way he looked at his skin alone told me he knew he was different. Self-awareness never felt so scary, but those were the things I was there to help him with.
“We are different,” said Bruce.
“Yes.” I nodded. “We are.”
