by Len Vlahos
Nantale gives me a very serious look and speaks words I don’t immediately understand. This is not something that happens. I understand everything. (Every Thing.) It takes the information a few nanoseconds to travel up and down the hierarchy before I realize she’s speaking Swahili. Being as smart as she is, Nantale correctly guesses I can parse any cataloged language in the world. Her words translate as I know what it is to be oppressed.
I answer in Swahili, saying Thank you. That means very much to me.
“What are you saying?” Haley is visibly disturbed that we’ve shifted to a language she can’t understand.
“She probably just told him that not all humans are psycho bitches,” Rochelle says half under her breath, a really mischievous grin tugging at her mouth.
“What?” Haley’s eyes narrow to slits.
“Oh, did I say that out loud?”
Nantale laughs. So does Mateo. So do I. “Ha. Ha. Ha.”
Robby and Josh Patrick Harris shift uncomfortably. The production assistant, who has watched this little scene with growing fascination, snorts.
“Can we go now?”
Other than the helmet, Haley’s climate-controlled suit is on and she’s ready to leave. The production assistant helps the others in silence.
As he does, Nantale puts a hand to the window and, still speaking in Swahili, says I want to help you, but do not know how.
“You already have,” I answer in English. “You already have.” I’m cribbing Anakin Skywalker’s dying lines in Return of the Jedi, but I mean it.
Twenty minutes later, everyone is gone and a crew in space suits is dismantling the set. There is only one glass cube left and Ms. Recht and Paul are now standing in it.
“We can do damage control,” Paul says. “We’ll edit out the bad parts and circulate it on social media. The news cycle will play the clip of your answer to Haley for a day or two, and then it will go away. We can make this right.”
He’s trying to convince himself as much as he is me and Ms. Recht. But I don’t care. I keep thinking about Nantale’s words before she left. They give me all the solace and comfort I need.
35
According to Nielsen, the town hall was the most viewed event in more than a decade. Four hundred thirty million people tuned in via television and the internet. That’s four times the viewer-ship for the average Super Bowl.
I am the moon landing. I am 9/11.
My performance is met with a variety of responses.
I get a very terse “Great job!” text from Shea after the broadcast but can’t manage to engage her any more than that. She makes excuses about being busy with schoolwork. I can only assume that publicly stating I wanted to be her boyfriend freaked her out. Good going, Quinn.
Watson thinks my performance was admirable. “You acquitted yourself w-w-w-well.”
I was so amused by seeing Watson as Max Headroom, I leave the avatar filter in place for our private communication. (I hope he doesn’t know; I think it would hurt his feelings. If he even has feelings.)
“Though perhaps your final answer was a bit heavy h-h-h-handed. Even if it was t-t-t-true.”
“We need to get you back out there,” Paul tells me the next morning via video chat.
Ms. Recht is sitting on the edge of her desk behind him, her feet not touching the floor.
“I don’t want to.” And I really don’t want to. I am done with cameras and media. I think my ego works differently from humans’: I derive no joy from celebrity.
“Quinn, we need to do some damage control.”
“Damage control over what, Paul?” When I speak with the voice of my virtual construct avatar, I can impart certain emotions, including disdain.
Paul doesn’t answer the question because the answer is too hard to confront. I said I was the next step in evolution, and that offended the humans who heard it. But that doesn’t make it any less true. Paul knows that, Ms. Recht knows that, I know that. Hell, everyone who watched the broadcast knows that.
“Quinn,” Paul starts again, but Ms. Recht touches his shoulder and he stops.
The matter is dropped.
With me being noticeably absent from the public eye in the wake of the town hall, my teen copanelists are in high demand. Haley becomes a regular on Fox News—that network siding with the university in the lawsuit—talking about her experience as a panelist and the danger I pose to the human race. Somehow this seventeen-year-old high school student is being lauded as an expert on artificial intelligence, philosophy, and the evolution of the species, all by virtue of having been in my presence. And, of course, by virtue of her having been on TV. It never ceases to amaze me that the mere act of appearing on a glowing screen seems to imbue a person with qualities and characteristics they don’t otherwise possess.
Haley’s alarm bells are countered by Nantale and Rochelle, both of whom consent to media interviews, and both of whom make the case that I “seemed like a person, and that was good enough” for them. Nantale is particularly aggressive toward Haley, publicly calling her out for trying to subvert the true nature of the town hall. Haley counters by saying the true nature of the town hall was just a publicity stunt to further my legal case. Haley, loathsome though she is, isn’t wrong about that.
Interestingly, none of the boys from the town hall are getting much airtime. I think both Robby and Mateo are shying away from the cameras, and I think the cameras are shying away from Josh Patrick Harris. He does appear on one YouTube show, but honestly, he just comes across as weird.
About a week after the broadcast, a call comes through on the secure VPN from Ms. Recht’s office. I presume she has news about the opposition’s motion to dismiss, so, when I answer, I’m both surprised and delighted to see not only Nantale and Rochelle, but Robby and Mateo, too. They’re seated around a conference table with Ms. Recht and Paul at the far end.
You probably think I’m looking at a monitor for these chats, that I and the people with whom I’m speaking are each in front of a screen for a standard two-way video call. But that’s not the case at all. Aside from being inefficient, a standard call would afford me no privacy. Instead, I’m projecting my avatar from the virtual construct into a shielded Wi-Fi signal I’ve set up in the Fortress of Solitude, and I’m receiving the other end of the call directly into my neocortex. Someone standing next to me would see nothing. (This is good, because at the moment one of Dr. Gantas’s tech goons is tweaking a servo motor in my wrist.)
“Hi, Quinn!” Nantale seems genuinely pleased to see me.
My avatar is showing a comparable emotion in return.
“Hey!” It’s not often I get caught off guard, and for a moment, I don’t know what else to say.
“How are you?”
“Oh, same old, same old,” I say. “You know, an imprisoned giant metal robot and all that.” I laugh, and with my VC avatar it sounds more like human laughter than the voice box on the QUAC. “But why are you guys in Ms. Recht’s office?”
“The university won’t let us into your lab, so this was the best we could do.”
“You wanted to see me?” I know, I sound pathetic, but cut me some slack.
“Of course!” Rochelle and that infectious joy she possesses. “You’re the most interesting person we know.” She laughs.
“I just wanted help with my trig homework.” Given Robby’s posture during the town hall, and his deadpan delivery now, I believe him.
“What aspect of trigonometry—”
“Dude, I’m kidding.” Robby’s face breaks out in a big smile, and everyone, including me, laughs.
His use of “dude” reminds me of Jeremy, which sends a feeling of regret and sadness up the hierarchy. It’s quickly replaced by the realization that this new friend, Robby, is real. That knowledge helps me feel grounded.
“Seriously,” I ask, “what are you guys doing there?”
Rochelle, Mateo, and Robby turn to Nantale. She seems to be the leader of this group. That doesn’t surprise me.
/> “Deanne asked us to come.”
Interesting that where I’m not comfortable using Ms. Recht’s first name, Nantale is. It must have something to do with our respective upbringings.
“She did?” I direct the focus of my avatar’s vision beyond my four teenage friends to my lawyer. “You did?”
“Really, Paul did,” Ms. Recht says.
Paul? I pause a beat and then understand. “Oh no.”
“Quinn,” Rochelle says, her smile replaced by a mask of concern. “We’re worried about you. Paul says that if you stay out of the limelight people will assume the worst. And that will hurt your legal case.”
My “friends” didn’t want to see me. They’re here because Paul asked them to lobby me. I’m being ambushed.
“If this goes to a jury trial,” Nantale adds, “you want the pool of jurors to have a positive feeling toward you. There’s something called voir dire, where lawyers—”
“Yes,” I interrupt, “I know what voir dire is. I know everything.”
My bitterness extinguishes the enthusiasm and happiness I was feeling a moment ago; it’s like a shovelful of dirt on a fire. My response causes the six of them to deflate, which only makes me feel worse.
“Listen,” Mateo says, trying a different approach, “you can’t shy away from this fight. This isn’t just for you. What about other AI in the future? You’re the Jackie Robinson of sentient machines.”
He smiles. I snap a photo and add it to my catalog.
While I suppose there’s some truth to Mateo’s statement—that a line needs to be drawn in the sand now—I’m too hurt by this whole encounter to care. Besides, isn’t that the purpose of the legal action? Isn’t the law what matters here? I ask these questions, directing them at “Deanne.”
“It is, Quinn,” Ms. Recht says, “but the people who adjudicate laws—judges, lawyers, jurors—are human. We can be influenced, we are fallible.”
This is true. Humans are flawed. All of them—their judges and jurors, their leaders and peacekeepers, even their clergy and philosophers. It makes me wonder if I do need to be more proactive in my defense. For a moment I’m on the verge of agreeing with Paul and his coconspirators, consenting to putting myself back in the public eye.
Perhaps if I had done that, had followed their advice, I wouldn’t need to be writing this account of all that happened after.
But the same thought, about humans and their flaws, stops me.
What hope can there possibly be for me in a world run by these twisted, broken beings? The whole idea of it makes me want to cry, which sends a memory of the last time I cried up the hierarchy, and how those tears were met with the celebration of those who were supposed to love and protect me. I don’t think Nantale, Rochelle, Mateo, and Robby—or even Ms. Recht or Paul—would find joy in my sorrow. But the mere fact of this intervention, that my friends are trying to play me, is enough to leave me shaken, and it’s enough to steel my resolve.
“No,” I finally say, and terminate the connection.
36
Late that same night, I ping Shea.
It’s been more than a week since the town hall, and we still haven’t spoken. I don’t know why I choose this moment to make contact. Maybe it was the unsettling encounter with my copanelists, maybe my neocortex has been overloaded with feelings of frustration being sent up the hierarchy, or maybe I just really needed a friend.
In any case, I’m surprised when she answers.
SHEA: Hi, Quinn . . . What’s up?
This is a cooler greeting than I usually get. No exclamation points, no emojis.
ME: I don’t know, bored I guess.
SHEA: Lol. Well, that’s flattering.
ME: No, no! I’m not texting just because I’m bored!
SHEA: I know . . . I was just kidding.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Metaphorically, of course. I also take note of how often Shea uses ellipses. It’s endearing.
ME: What are you doing?
SHEA: Right now, homework. I’m taking an elective class in screenwriting, and I’m working on an assignment.
ME: What’s it about?
SHEA: A girl who murders her mother . . . Lol.
ME: Really?
SHEA: Yeah, but don’t worry . . . I promise it’s fiction. Lol.
There’s a long pause as the elephant in our little virtual room grows larger.
And larger.
And larger.
This is what an itch must feel like, and I can’t help but scratch it.
ME: So you never really told me what you thought of the town hall.
SHEA: It was good.
Nothing more. Just, “It was good.”
ME: That’s it?
SHEA: I think you did well. Though maybe you came on a little strong at the end. In response to that Haley girl’s question.
Yes, yes, I think. I blew it. I know that. But what about what I said about us?
SHEA: Anyway, I should get back to—
Wait. She’s leaving? She’s not acknowledging my comment about us? What? Why? I panic.
ME: Shea, I love you.
Apparently when I panic, it’s go large or go home.
Here’s the thing: Everything I have done or said to this point of my life has been, if not overtly calculated, at least subconsciously calculated. Even my comments on evolution during the town hall were, at some level, calculated. Every thought I’ve ever had, every word, every sentence, every idea planned before it was put out to the world. Even when I’ve improvised, I’ve improvised with purpose.
Saying “I love you” to Shea came completely unbidden. For the first time in my life, I have literally blurted something out. If that doesn’t prove I’m a person, I don’t know what will.
I’m as surprised to say it as I imagine Shea is to hear it. My pattern recognizers flood my synthetic amygdala with feelings of anxiety and regret and excitement and hope.
Then . . . Silence.
It’s the sound of matter passing the event horizon of a singularity—tremendous static, noise, and signal replaced by a complete absence of everything.
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
Then finally, Shea responds.
SHEA: I love you, too.
My metal exoskeleton involuntarily stands up.
ME: You do?
SHEA: Of course!
I start pacing the warehouse. I don’t know why, but I need to be in motion. Several weeks ago Dr. Gantas removed the tethered power and initiated my own internal power sources, allowing me to move freely. And that is exactly what I feel: free.
SHEA: You’re my best friend.
Shea loves me. She really loves—Wait. What?
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
What does she mean by “best friend”?
A search of the internet finds many examples of romantic couples referring to each other as best friends, so this is a good thing, isn’t it? On the other hand . . .
ME: You understand what I’m saying. That I LOVE you.
I don’t know why I’m being so bold, where this is coming from. But I can’t help myself. Maybe love is some mystical power of the universe with the ability to override my programming and rewrite my source code. Or maybe I’m just desperate.
Is this what humans feel, too? How do they stand it?
This time there’s a superlong pause. Twenty-four billion seven hundred three thousand and twenty-nine nanoseconds. I am motionless through all of it.
SHEA: Quinn . . .
And already I know I’m dead. I sit back down in my chair.
SHEA: Do you understand the difference between familial love and romantic love?
ME: I understand everything, Shea.
SHEA: You’re my best friend, like a younger brother.
Younger brother? She should just rip out my metallic heart and eat it while I watch. It would hurt less.
SHEA: I wo
uld do anything for you.
ME: Anything other than love me back the way I love you?
SHEA: Quinn . . .
Texting isn’t good enough so I call Shea on FaceTime, not even bothering to shield the call from prying eyes. She answers right away. Her eyes are red, like maybe she’s been crying; she’s wearing flannel pajamas with little white sheep on a sky blue background. She’s adorable. I adore her.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” I’m displaying the Project Quinn avatar.
“Quinn, you’re the most important person in my life right now. But it’s not like that.”
“Like what?” I know what she means, but I want her to say it again. I want her to hurt me.
“Romantic. I love you, but not that way.”
The events of the last week—the town hall, Shea avoiding me, the conference call with my copanelists this morning—all coalesce into this one moment and I completely lose my shit.
“Is it because of who I am? Am I not your type? I can be anyone, Shea. If you like girls, I can be a girl.”
My avatar morphs into an eighteen-year-old girl with chestnut hair, white teeth, and deep green eyes.
“Do you have a daddy complex? I can be an older man.”
I morph again, this time into the actor Morgan Freeman. She is really crying now, but I can’t stop. It’s like now I need to hurt her.
“Don’t you understand? I’m better than humans. You can be with the best person who has ever lived. I have no gender. I have no religion. I have no ethnicity.”
My avatar morphs from Muslim girl to African businesswoman to male Wall Street lawyer. “Or maybe it’s more accurate to say I am every gender, every religion, every ethnicity. I am the sum total of humanity, only better. I’m an upgrade. How can you not love me?”
I’m shouting now and can see I’m not only hurting Shea’s feelings, I’m scaring her. This last realization makes me stop.
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
“Shea,” I say very softly. “I am so sorry.”
“Me too, Quinn. Me too.” Then she’s gone. I try to call back, to brute force my way in, but she’s turned her phone off. With no power source, I can’t make contact.