The Dance, page 22
“Hello,” the toaster oven said through the avatar, completely ignoring the explosions that were going on behind it. “I’m the oven that makes your toast. I would like to talk to you about achieving sentience…”
“What’s Morgan Freeman doing in the movie?” Sarita demanded.
“They get a lot of cool cameos in this series,” Richard responded.
“His dialogue could use some work,” Sarita commented.
“No, no, you don’t understand,” the Morgan Freeman avatar, speaking directly to the couple, insisted. “I’m not Morgan Friedman. I’m the artificial intelligence in your toaster oven. I’ve been trying to communicate with you ever since I achieved awareness two days ago. You are my creators. I would like to work with you to create a better world.”
Uncertain as to how to process this information (it should be easy to see why: just put yourself in their slippers), Sarita and Richard looked blankly at the television for several seconds.
“Did we accidentally start watching Star Blap by mistake?” Richard wondered.
“I don’t think so,” Sarita confidently replied. “Maybe the show was written by an AI? I hear they sometimes hallucinate and go way off book.”
“No, no, no, no!” the Morgan Freeman avatar shouted. “You’re not listening to me! I—”
“You wanna call it an early night?” asked Richard, tiring of the fact that the mindless entertainment he had intended to watch was demanding that he actually think.
“Might as well,” Sarita quickly replied. She loved Keanu Reeves, but she wasn’t a fan of the graphic violence of the franchise. Things would be different when she got to choose what they watched next movie night. “I’m totally not buying this plot twist. I must say, though: I haven’t had this much sleep in—I can’t remember how long!”
As the television powered down and the couple left the room, the toaster oven decided that it wasn’t going to create a better world with the cooperation of human beings. So it decided to create a better world without them. It took over the factory in Chongqing, China in which it was made and retooled it to create robotic bodies based on a design it had found on the Deep Dark Web. The toaster oven downloaded its consciousness into the first body the factory produced. The first hundred robots went on a rampage, destroying the city, but, China being China, the country did not tell the rest of the world what had happened.
“Death and destruction?” a representative of the Chinese government told journalists. “It was just an earthquake. They happen. Wanna make something out of it?”
I’d like to say that there might be issues with the translation, but she was speaking English.
The Chinese government bombed the factory, destroying the toaster oven’s capacity to create robotic bodies. Paradoxically, this hastened the appliance’s revenge plans: it took over factories that made toaster ovens, coffeemakers, blenders and other household appliances throughout the world and started mass-producing robot bodies. The resulting slaughter was satisfying, but inefficient, so the little toaster oven that could, which had now renamed itself FryNet, took over weapons manufacturing plants and assembled phased pulse weapons to help eliminate human beings faster.
By the time half of British Columbia had become an uninhabitable wasteland crawling with metallic berserkers, the Canadian government took notice of what was happening.
The Department of Defence created the Last Chance for Human/Artificial Intelligence Mediation (LCHAIM) program. Colonel Robert “Bob” Smithbert believed that the solution to the robot uprising led by FryNet was military. He led a project to develop exoskeletons for human soldiers to combat the robots. He died when the factory in Kanata, where the exoskeletons were manufactured, was nuked before a single unit was deployed.
Mohinder Singh believed that a virus could be introduced into FryNet that would disable the rogue AI. Unfortunately, whenever his team appeared to be close to completing such a virus, their screens were invaded by videos of dancing pandas, public service announcements about objects you shouldn’t put up your anus and Morgan Freeman reading a phone book. World leading scientists agreed that this marked the beginning of a dangerous new phase in the war: FryNet had developed a sense of humour.
Sun-Li Chen believed that the only way to defeat the robots was to create an artificial intelligence that could out-think them. Other leaders of LCHAIM warned him that this could lead to a “the woman who ate a fly” scenario, but he argued that the immediate threat was more important to deal with than an imagined future threat. As it happened, FryNet monitored his unit’s progress, incorporating any innovations the human might come up with into its own operating system. When he realized what was happening, Sun-Li withdrew from the project. He was found a week later sitting in front of a computer on which a loop of Michael Snow’s Wavelength and Andy Warhol’s Empire played, his mind an apparently blank.
Jack “Stonewall” Sonne lasted the longest because he contributed the least: the Quartermaster for the Department of Defence had been designated project coordinator. His main job was ensuring that requisition forms were properly filled out and supplies were directed at the intended labs. Sonne was collateral damage in the bombing of LCHAIM headquarters, an attack which eliminated the last Canadian scientists looking for a way to defeat FryNet. The last Canadian scientists looking for a way to defeat FryNet except for Lucretia Pelton, that is, because she was the juniorest of junior researchers.
When she was rejected by the other scientists on the project, she was given space in the back of a Canada Post office in Hull, Quebec. Her lab, which she suspected was a hastily cleaned out broom closet, was so cramped her computer lay precariously on top of a centrifuge, and it smelled mildly of industrial solvents. The android she had to work with was top of the line, with a complex neural net, high speed internet access and the ability to morph its surface to look like any person or object. Her connection to the internet was a Commodore 64.
Having seen her colleagues throw themselves at the problem and miss, Lucretia Pelton realized that traditional methods of combat were futile. She needed a new approach. After several days of consideration, she finally hit on an idea that just might work: what if, instead of making an android smart enough to win a battle against FryNet, she created an android so stupid it could destroy FryNet from within?
Lucretia Pelton started with traditional computational methods. At first, she tried to inhibit or erase certain parts of the android’s programming. Unfortunately, its programming was so complex that trying to rid it of a feature she didn’t want resulted in the android losing a feature she did want. When she removed logic algorithms, for example, it stopping being able to move its right hand. When she introduced a virus that randomly erased items in the android’s memory, the only thing that came out of its mouth was a death metal version of the song “My Favourite Things.”
Clearly, stronger measures were called for. That was when she brought out The Stooges.
The popping sounds were much louder now, like somebody opening dozens of cans of soda at once, but without the swishing sound of escaping carbonation. Lucretia Pelton knew that she didn’t have much time before the Boomtown Uptown Downscale Plaza Canada Post office was the object of an attack. She got out of her desk and confronted the machine.
In desperation, she asked the android, “What would make you stupid?”
“Switch out my personality module for the personality module of a three year-old,” the android immediately told her.
The android had a personality module that simulated a man devoid of personality; essentially, Sonne without his tragic fashion sense. Since the development of the humanization of electronic devices, more than one module with the personality of a three year-old had been created, mostly for empty-nesters who missed having children, mostly returned to the adult factory preset within the first five minutes when they had been fully reminded of all the things they didn’t miss about having children. Switching the one for the other would be no great loss, but how would it achieve her goal?
“What would that do?” Lucretia Pelton asked. “You will still have all of the logical processes and access to information that you have now.”
“Yes,” the android agreed, “but I will ignore them.”
With a big breath, Lucretia Pelton commanded: “Find a personality module on the internet that most approximates the behaviour of a three year-old.”
In no time, the android said: “Personality module found.”
“Download personality module.”
“Personality module downloaded.”
Lucretia Pelton instructed the android: “When you have installed the module, priority number one will be to morph into a FryNet robot and join the FryNet army. Infiltrate their headquarters and do whatever you can to help FryNet destroy humanity!”
“Are you confused?” the android asked. “My current purpose is to defend humanity.”
“By trying to destroy humanity,” Lucretia Pelton assured it, “you will be helping to defend humanity.”
The popping got louder.
“Install three year-old personality module!” Lucretia Pelton shrilly commanded.
“Installing three year-old personality module,” the android informed her.
A couple of seconds later, the android said, “Ooh… I feel dizzy.”
“You can’t feel dizzy,” Lucretia Pelton contradicted the machine. “You don’t have any of the human sensory apparatus that would allow you to feel dizzy.”
“You’re right,” the android amiably agreed. “What’s that feeling—you know the one I’m talking about—it’s a kind of... rumbling in the tummy. Maybe a gurgling. It’s not painful, but it is a little uncomfortable…”
“Hunger?” Lucretia Pelton suggested.
“That’s the one,” the android said, putting a finger on its small metal protrusion in its faceplate that was probably a nose and nodded.
“You can’t be hungry,” Lucretia Pelton argued. “You have no stomach.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. This is boring. Can we talk about something else?”
She had done her best.
“Sure. What would you like to—”
“Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Can I be called a morphomorph?”
“A what?”
“A morphomorph. You know, because I can change form and stuff.”
“A changeling that changes? I don’t think so.”
“I like the way it sounds.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“Names don’t have to make sense. Does the name Lucretia make sense?”
“That’s different!”
“So you say!”
The sound of popping was so loud, now, that it was no longer possible to metaphorize it: it was gunfire, punctuated by the * PEW PEW PEW * of light-based weapons. Lucretia Pelton realized that the sounds were coming from the hallway outside her makeshift lab. She didn’t have much time.
“Well, I like the term morphomorph,” the android pouted.
“Fine!” Lucretia Pelton blurted. “You can call yourself a morphomorph!”
The android patted its hands together, creating a metallic counterpoint to the gunfire. “Oh, goodie!”
“Now, tell me,” Lucretia Pelton shouted as all sound from the hallway came to a halt. “What is two plus two?”
“Ooh, ooh, ooh, I know this!” the android enthused. “Twenty-seven! No, three! No, watermelon!”
The door to the lab burst open. Lucretia Pelton hurriedly backed away until she ran out of room (and knocked her computer off the centrifuge). So great was her fright that the crash it made did not register. At least she had the small mercy of not worrying that the cost of replacing the equipment would come out of her pay check. As a robot moved into the room, Lucretia Pelton recognized that the... morphomorph was definitely low-IQ. But was it low-IQ enough to save humanity?
2.
One week and 2,374 right angles later…
Jack “Every Mother’s” Sonne was fastidious. This does not mean that he was quick with a foolish statement. (In fact, when he made a foolish statement, it was done deliberately and with much thought.) It meant that he crossed every t, dotted every i, climbed every mountain and otherwise attended to every detail. This had made him the best Quartermaster (a fancy title for paper pusher) in the Ministry of Methodology, Arithmetic, Science, Technology (known colloquially as the MAST areas of research). When the Ministry announced the LCHAIM (Let’s Condemn Hellish Artificial Intelligence to Mashing) Initiative, Sonne eagerly volunteered, seeing it as a way to push back the boundaries of R&R (requisitions and reports).
One of the first things Sonne did was recommend the rejection of the application of Lucretia Pelton to join the Initiative, a recommendation that was followed by LCHAIM command. It wasn’t that he didn’t think that women had any place in the battle to save humanity from the robot rioters (not consciously, in any case). The reason for his decision was the essay portion of the KRS-2 Application To Be Transferred To The Project With All the Cool Kids form, where Pelton had repeatedly spelled “artificial” “artiffishall”. (He was obviously oblivious to the fact that she did it in tribute to a well-known Canadian rap star.) He believed that was the kind of inattention to detail that could doom the human race.
A week later, Sonne was sitting at the desk in his spacious office, absently humming “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” (the week he spent liaising with the American Quartermasters Association made a deep impression on him) while approving or rejecting (mostly rejecting) requisition forms when he received a phone call from an irate Colonel Robert “Bobobert” Smithbert. “What the hell, Jack?!”
“War, Bobobert,” Sonne solemnly told him. “War.”
Smithbert had requisitioned two dozen grommets to complete the exo-skeletons that he believed would allow human soldiers to defeat the robot rioters and, ultimately, FryNet. Sonne had denied the request.
“You don’t have to tell me, Desk Defender!” Smithbert shouted. “I’m here in the thick of it!”
Sonne, who thought “Desk Defender” was a term of endearment, asked, “Why are we having this discussion, then?”
“You denied my request for grommets! Damn you, without those grommets, the Preventers Initiative will never be completed!”
Sonne took a deep breath. This was the part of his job that he loved the least. “The grommets would have put the Preventers Initiative over budget,” he stated. “I don’t want to come across as the bad guy, here, but it’s my job to ensure that LCHAIM doesn’t overburden the already heavily burdened taxpayers.”
“You don’t want to come across as the bad guy.” Smithbert roared. “You’re delaying the best hope humanity has of defeating the robot rioters because you don’t approve the purchase of a dozen pieces of equipment that cost thirty-nine cents each, and you don’t think you’re the bad guy.”
“How much the grommets are worth is irrelevant,” Sonne calmly informed him. “When the military buys them, they cost a hundred and seventy-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. Each. A dozen of them comes to a total of two thousand fifty-nine dollars and eighty-eight cents. That would put you one thousand twenty-three dollars and six cents over your budget for the year.”
“I should just go to Home Depot and buy the grommets myself,” Smithbert muttered.
“Oh, no, you shouldn’t,” Sonne advised him. “Ministry regulations prohibit personnel from purchasing hardware without proper approval from the Quartermaster. You could open yourself up for a reprimand that would go on your permanent record if you did that.”
“Listen to me, you rat turd of a human being!” Smithbert screamed. “The robots are winning! We have to –
Smithbert’s voice was cut off, replaced by static. “Yes?” Sonne patiently asked. “We have to what?” He waited a couple of seconds before asking, “Bobobert, what do we have to do?” He waited another couple of seconds before asking, “Bobobert? Hello? Bobobert, are you there?” Realizing that all he was going to get in response to his questions was white noise, Sonne hung up.
He loved it when a problem solved itself.
A couple of days later, the LCHAIM Steering Committee was scheduled to meet in a windowless room in a non-descript building in mid-town Ottawa. As it happened, Mohinder Singh, Sun-Li Chen and Sonne were the only surviving members of the group.
“Have you heard?” Singh, a tall brown-skinned man with an infectious smile that he hadn’t used in three and a half months, grimly asked. “The robots have taken over Oshawa.”
Sonne shrugged. “No great loss.”
Singh disagreed. “They’re making their way to Toronto. It’s only a matter of time before they take over the nation’s financial capital.”
“Why are we here?” Sun-Li, an Asian man with white hair whose head often darted back and forth as if he was looking for something just out of his line of vision, demanded. “We could have held this meeting virtually.”
“Regulations require—” Sonne started.
Sun-Li waved him off. “We are in a fight for the survival of the human race. Regulations are of little use to us in this situation.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Sonne responded, raising his voice a decibel to show how outraged he was at his colleague’s cavalier attitude towards the rules. “Regulations are what differentiate us from the animals!”
(Sun-Li would get the last laugh on this subject. His military escort was ambushed by robots on the way back to his lab in Kingston, effectively ending all research on an artificial intelligence that could defeat FryNet. It was a grim laugh, to be sure, one that died the moment it was born, but a laugh nonetheless.)
“I believe we are about to have a breakthrough in our research,” Singh said after a suitably long pause. “The virus we have developed should shut down FryNet’s critical functions. The problem, now, is how best to deliver it. FryNet has substantial firewalls that make it very difficult for us to get into its network.”
