Today I Am Carey

by Martin L Shoemaker

  “Oh,” I say. And then after a pause, “I am sorry, do I bring this argument to your mind?”

  At that Dr. Zinta laughs. It lasts several seconds, and she is gasping when she is done. “No, Carey, no, you’re way beyond anything he would have understood. Heavens, I barely understand you.”

  I would try to explain myself, but we have been through this for years, so I know what she means. She has yet to explain my self-awareness, nor to reproduce it in the lab. “But on that subject,” she continues, “let’s have a seat.” We adjourn to her office. This has now become a familiar, comfortable part of the diagnostic routine where we talk as two colleagues. I might even say friends. That is how she perceives me, and I think it is a good word for our relationship. I think she is my friend. My First Friend, my creator.

  Dr. Zinta pours a cup of coffee, but she does not offer me one. That joke was amusing to her the first few times, but she has not made it in years.

  We sit, and she looks across the desk at me. “Carey, we think me might have a new angle to try in the replication problem.”

  “I see,” I say. In our early years of consciousness research, Dr. Zinta had tried to recreate my self-awareness. She was sure I was a result of some interaction between empathy and emulation and my governing network. So she had had BRKCX units like myself placed into different homes and other social environments to see if they would “awaken,” as she puts it. But eventually those tests were cancelled, and MCA put those units into regular service without the emulation nets. Her results had been a complete failure in every case. But that’s not too surprising, she had said. No two neural nets are ever quite the same. They are always the result of the feedback between environment and initial state iterated over time, in a way not that different from biological evolution. The right combination happens at the right time randomly, and the change happens. And it will happen again, but you cannot predict when. The odds might be billions to one or more. In that way, she had said, you are as unique as any human being. None of us, not even identical twins, are the same. Environment, education, experience, epigenetics, they all combine to create a unique individual beyond just genetics.

  So next we had tried replication. One way that I am unlike humans is that my entire cognitive model is backed up to cloud storage on a regular basis. Dr. Zinta had pursued a seemingly natural course—make a digital clone of my cognitive model and install it in another BRKCX unit with the same hardware. The results have been disappointing. The cloned units had many of my mannerisms and all of my knowledge, but none of my sense of self. They never woke up. Dr. Zinta had spent years analyzing their data for gaps and differentials before she gave up, frustrated.

  “Just as we thought, it’s your quantum circuits,” she says, drawing me out of my reverie. “Your neural net is built on quantum processors with q-states. Just the act of reading them for cloning changes the results.”

  “I sense no change,” I say. I never had, not during any of the failed replication tests. And my self-diagnostics had shown no change.

  “That’s good,” she says. “If you had, I would have stopped immediately. You’re too important to risk in these experiments.”

  “If it advances human knowledge—”

  “No,” she insists. “I couldn’t take that chance.” But her eyes are bright. She is eager. “And we won’t have to. We think we’ve solved the quantum replication issue. We’ve been learning more about the q-states, and we think we found a way to replicate them faithfully through quantum resonance.”

  “I am afraid that is beyond my knowledge.”

  “I’ll download you some research papers,” she says. “The point is we can replicate your states in another network.”

  “That does sound promising.”

  “But there’s a risk,” she continues. I read concern in her eyes. “We’ve tested this with existing networks. But none of those were self-aware, so we can’t be sure what the effect might be on you.”

  “That is what the experiment is for, of course.”

  “Yes,” she agrees, “but it might be a risk. Is this something you want to do?”

  I shake my head. “That is not my decision, Doctor, you know that. I do not have the legal right to make that decision. I am owned by Paul and Susan Owens. They are the ones you should ask.”

  Dr. Zinta slaps the desk. “Oh, enough with that stupid argument!”

  “What?”

  “Carey, we still can’t explain it, but you are self-aware. You’re alive and intelligent. You are, for all practical purposes, a person. And people do not own other people.”

  I am confused by her statement. “But the purchase agreement says . . .”

  “Purchase agreement,” she scoffs. “That’s just a legal fiction we used to get you out from under control of MCA. It’s not real. Paul and Susan certainly don’t act like it’s real. When was the last time they gave you an order?”

  I think back to that Christmas season so many years ago. Had that really been my last order from the Owenses? “A long time, I admit. They ask me to do things. Sometimes they ask my opinion on whether some things should be done or not.”

  “See? They understand you’re a person. It’s time you did, too.”

  I shake my head. “It is still not right. They should still make this decision.”

  “Uh-huh,” she looks at me, and she pauses. Then in a more forceful tone she says, “Today you are Paul. Tell me what Paul says. Paul, should I run this possibly risky experiment on Carey?”

  Today I am Paul. She surprises me by expecting that of me, and my emulation net takes over automatically. In Paul’s voice I answer. “It’s Carey’s decision. We would hate to lose it, but it has to decide. Only it knows what it wants.”

  And then I am myself again. “That was unfair, Dr. Zinta.”

  “Is that pique, Carey?” she asks. Then she taps the desk with her stylus, and the desk chimes in response. “What you said was the truth, Carey. So what do you want?”

  I still have trouble understanding want. I understand need easily. Humans need to eat and sleep, or they become ill and die. I need to rest and rebalance my networks, or I malfunction.

  And I understand responsibility. Duty. Things you do because that is what you are supposed to do. For me, that is programming. I am programmed to care for others, and so that is my responsibility. But humans, without programming, have responsibilities as well. That is often the most difficult concept for my empathy net to comprehend: What makes them accept these responsibilities?

  But wanting . . . Millie wants to learn about frogs. She always has, since before I first knew her. What drives that desire? When I have asked, she always answers, “’Cause they’re frogs!”

  Susan wants her students to be safe and educated. That is her responsibility, yes, but it is one she voluntarily assumes. You could say she wants it. Why?

  Want is something deeper. It is programming, it is responsibilities, but it is also tied to identity. To what one believes is important.

  I know what I believe is important in this discussion. “I want to help advance human knowledge. I want very much to participate in this experiment, Dr. Zinta.”

  She smiles, but I sense regret as well. “All right,” she says, rising. “Let’s go to the quantum lab and hook you up to the resonator.”

  15. Today We Hunt Frogs

  “I don’t think I can make it, Carey.”

  I turn back and look across the stream. Millie stands on a rock in the middle of the flowing water, just having jumped from another rock closer to shore. She peers warily at the gap to the next rock, the large one that I stand upon.

  Yesterday Dr. Zinta finished her resonance recordings, and today I have no immediate responsibilities. So when Millie asked to go on an outing, I agreed. Now I worry that we may have been too ambitious. We are heading for the islet that lies between the side stream and the main branch of the river. There is a pond there where frogs breed. Last week we had visited there to see how the tadpoles
were developing. This week we hope to see them transformed into frogs.

  But this week there has been strong rain, and the stream is higher and faster. I am torn. Susan has asked me not to do so many things for Millie, so that the child can learn and grow independent; but I also must keep her safe.

  I decide. “Shall I come get you, Millie?”

  Millie bites her lip. She wants to do everything for herself. She wants to see the frogs. But she does not want to fall into that rushing stream. Finally she nods. “Uh-huh.”

  “All right,” I answer. “Stand back.”

  Millie steps to the far edge of her rock, and I leap nimbly across the gap. My physical upgrades serve me well, and I land with easy balance. Then I lift Millie in my arms, turn, and jump back across the water.

  Millie laughs, and I set her down. The rest of the rocks in our makeshift ford are close enough together that she can comfortably jump between them. She hops ahead of me, making ribbit noises as she pretends to be a frog.

  Once on the islet, Millie races ahead of me to the pond. It is really just a hollow filled with runoff from the river; and if the rains get much stronger, the river may reclaim it. But for now it is a tranquil spot where the tadpoles grow.

  “Look, Carey!” Millie squeals. “Rana clamitans, the Green Frog. And they’ve got legs!” She crouches by the pond, pointing at the water.

  I kneel down beside the pond and see for myself. Most of the tadpoles have got all four legs developed already, and their tails have almost disappeared. “You are right Millie,” I say. “They are changing.”

  “It’s metamorphosis,” she says. Millie is an avid reader, fascinated by the natural sciences and anything out in the wild. According to my research, her vocabulary is at least five grade levels ahead of her age. She loves collecting specimens and must know the name and the natural history of everything she sees.

  “That is right Millie, metamorphosis.”

  Millie continues, “That means they change, they grow into something different than they started.” She looks at me. “Just like you.”

  If I were a human, my natural response would be to blink at that statement, registering confusion. “Do I change, Millie? Do you mean when I get upgrades in the laboratory?”

  She stares intently at me. “Not just that, Carey. You’re not the same as those other androids. I don’t like them.” Millie once accompanied Paul and me to the MCA labs. Although she had been fascinated by the equipment, she had been disdainful toward the other androids. And she had turned away when Dr. Zinta had disassembled me to check my joints.

  “But I am just like them,” I say. “Now that I have had the latest physical upgrades, there is no way to tell between me and other BRKCX units.”

  “No, silly,” she says. “Your metamorphosis is on the inside. You’re a person inside.”

  If I were a human, this is where I would sigh. On this topic Millie’s scientific nature always falls short. She insists that I am a person, not an android, despite all external evidence. I know from past experience that this argument will end in a chain of circular reasoning, like Dr. Zinta’s Turing test. Millie is convinced that I am a person because she believes I am a person.

  I prefer not to waste our time on the island in a pointless discussion—and really, does that preference not support her position?—so I just nod. “As you wish, Millie.”

  Seeing the argument is settled, Millie turns back to the pond. “Oh, please, Carey, take pictures. I want to show Mom and Dad.” Many kids Millie’s age have wrist comps they use as phones and cameras and music players and games. Though she has a comp, Millie has shown little interest in it. She has me, and I can make calls and I can take videos. I have no immediate need of this video data, so I open a cloud connection to stream the video directly to storage.

  Today I am Brad. I do not know why I am on my knees. That is not a natural position for Brad. So I stand, darken my silicone skin, and square my shoulders to stand tall. As Brad, I have cleaning to do. So I start walking toward the closet . . .

  “Carey!” Millie squeals.

  I look down. I am standing in the tadpole pond and wondering who is Brad and why was I him.

  “I am sorry Millie,” I say. “I do not know—” I stop. I do not know what happened to me, and I worry that I may be a risk to Millie. I stare around at the rushing stream on one side and the deeper main channel on the other side. I see storm clouds upstream, and I worry: Can I get Millie home safely if something within me is malfunctioning?

  “That’s okay, Carey,” she says. “Did you get the video? Did you get a picture at least?”

  I check my cloud storage.

  Today I am Frances. Dr. Zinta is testing my emulation net. As Frances, I have simple tests to perform in the functional testing lab. Picking up the dropped objects, sorting them into their proper locations. I look around. “Now where did I drop those tadpoles?” I say. “All I see are frogs.” Dr. Zinta stares at me oddly. Somehow I know that this is odd for her even though I am still learning her emulation profile.

  “Dr. Zinta,” I say, “I think something is wrong.”

  She looks at me. “Dr. Zinta?” she asks.

  Once more I am standing in the water. I back carefully out. “Millie, I think something is wrong,” I say. “I am going to call your father.” I open a phone channel.

  “G9A27, why did you call me Dr. Zinta?”

  “Is that not your name?” I say.

  Dr. Zinta plugs a diagnostic scanner into my chassis. “It is, but you always call me Dr. Jansons.”

  I puzzle over that. Finally I answer, “I find that in casual conversation humans are more comfortable with given names.”

  “G9A27,” Dr. Zinta says. “I’m afraid there’s something wrong.”

  “I am afraid there is something wrong,” I say to Millie. “I think we should get home now.”

  “But Carey, we just got here.”

  “I am sorry, Millie, but this is a matter of safety. I must insist.”

  “But Carey . . .”

  I put my foot down, literally, emphasizing my insistence. “Millie, we can come back when I am functioning properly. We must get home right away.”

  She looks up at me, and her eyes grow more intent. “Are you all right, Carey?”

  I cannot lie to her. “I am functional, but I will need maintenance.” Then I look at the rocks in the stream. “But I am still sufficiently in control of myself to carry you across the ford. I think we need to hurry.”

  “All right.” She lifts her arms, and I pick her up and start across the rocks.

  We are on the largest rock when lightning flashes far upstream and the roll of thunder hits us. My emergency weather radio kicks in, and—

  Today I am Brad. I still have cleaning to do. I do not know what I am carrying, but I set it down so I can go fetch the broom. I turn and head for the closet; and suddenly somehow I have fallen through the floor and into rushing water all around me. Somewhere I hear a child screaming, but I see none when I look around. I see no water either, but my tactile senses tell me I am bobbing, tossed about by rushing water. My metal ceramic frame and my silicone sponge body are buoyant enough for the water to carry me along, farther away from the fading screams, the source of which I still cannot see.

  “Again,” says the voice in my radio receiver, “possible flood conditions. Residents are urged to stay out of the floodplain.” Somehow I am in the stream, at least ten meters from Millie as she stands on the large rock, screaming at me. I am bobbing up and down in the water, being carried away; and then I bump into something. I have hit a branch sticking out from a submerged log. I grab it and I hold on to try to keep myself from getting washed even further farther away.

  “Carey,” Millie screams. “What’s wrong?”

  I wish I knew what is wrong. There are gaps in my data record. Accessing those gaps, I see that I was asleep during those periods. Just an ordinary, unaware medical care android. Each period of unconsciousness corresponds to a me
ssage to or from an external data feed. Somehow external feeds are interfering with my operations.

  Yet strangely, I have memories from those sleeping periods. Memories from the MCA test labs. Current memories: The time signature is today, within the last few minutes. I need Dr. Zinta to explain; but first I need to get Millie to safety before the waters rise.

  Then looking around me I realize I may be more at risk than Millie is. She is dry on the rock. I am trapped here in the waters. The log that holds me is far from either shore. Another fifteen meters downstream, the stream that I am in rejoins the main river, where the water is even faster. If I get caught in that, I may have no control at all. Swimming is not a skill I was programmed for.

  But my first priority must be Millie. If I cannot save her, she will need to save herself. I cannot trust my internal circuits, so she must make the call. “Millie,” I shout, grateful for the amplifiers in my chassis so she can hear me over the rush of the water. “Please, you have to get to shore and then find someone and call for help. Call Dr. Zinta.” Then I remember she does not know Dr. Zinta’s call address. “Call your father. He will know what to do.”

  Millie looks at the gap between the large rock and the next step in the ford. The water is already rising. “I can’t do it,” she says.

  “Yes, you can.”

  “Carey . . .” I hear a catch in her voice. She is on the verge of crying. “Carey, I can’t do it. It’s too far.”

  “Millie, you have to do it.”

  I hear her sob. I search through her emulation profile, trying to find a way to motivate her and encourage her. When I find the answer, the thing that will motivate her surprises me. “Millie,” I say, “this is important. I know you can do this. If you get a running start you can jump across. Please Millie, I need you to do this for me. I need your help.”