Conception: Book One of Human Dilemma

by Scott Sibary

  Her jaw clamped tight. Her throbbing head shook. As the insult lingered in the tight quarters, her entire body began to vibrate. She launched from her seat and leaned towards him. Her face flushed with indignation, she raised a clenched fist. Frozen in that pose, she glared at him.

  Am I really thinking of punching him? she asked herself, as her reasoning intellect began to retake center stage. Per was making no attempt at honest discussion of his own behavior. He was now the one shooting barbed arrows to satisfy his anger. And the last arrow had struck deep.

  But her mind drew back from the scene and saw two animals ready for mortal combat: the one with her body posed for attack, the other insane with rage, his face contorted in cocky defiance. As the burning anger between them singed her, she understood him. He had found himself in a similar position as she was in. As everyone was. Trying to stay loyal to their values, both were dealing with the dilemma of whether to cooperate, of how to get along. But the sharp contrast in their approach to tolerating opposing views drove them against each other—ironically, in her case.

  She let her arm drop against her side and met his hardened eyes. How could beauty be transformed instantly into such ugliness? His nobility dead, she saw the deformed image being etched into her memory like the frieze on a sarcophagus.

  She lowered herself into her chair and spoke in a gentle voice. “Per, it may be hard for you to believe, but we're on to something historic, something that could achieve peace and also protect our country. You’re a brilliant engineer, yet you aren’t in a position to understand the workings of this. I can’t tell you more, only that we are doing what will be best for Norway.”

  Per worked his back against his chair as she spoke. He relaxed his face and gave out a dismissive puff from his cheeks. Then he closed his eyes.

  Solveig faced the deputy ambassador. “Do you need me any longer?”

  “Not right now. Thanks for your help. We may well need to consult with you further about this." As she nodded to Solveig she added, "I hope you can get some more rest tonight.”

  At the door, Solveig turned to Per and asked, “Is there anything I could do for you, my friend?”

  He looked at her with slightly crossed eyes and let out a short laugh. With a smirk he raised his hands to the side, palms turned upward, and said, “You could wish me ‘happy birthday.’ ”

  Her reluctant mind fumbled. Midnight had passed, so it was now 22 July. She shook her head. Oh, Lord, is this really his birthday or just sick humor?

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “The same as the Utøya massacre.” Then, looking fixedly at her, he added, “But I don’t kill people.”

  His last words continued to ring in her mind as she exited the building. On the drive back to her apartment, she closed her eyes in half slumber, only to face the unrelenting Furies. A swarm of celebrating drinkers, their glasses filled with cheap wine, shoved her along towards a gaping crevasse, then she had a sense of falling deep into a web of crepe paper ribbons, the yellow and red choking her cry for help. Per’s inflamed face shot at her out of the darkness, his mouth spewing a frothy red confusion. Then the bloodied head of the dead thief. She felt a sharp pain on her scalp and she flinched in her seat.

  She opened her eyes, her body trembling. The city lights flickered by, and she wondered where she truly was. She knew only that it was extremely unlike her to have tears streaming down her cheeks and a clump of hair in her hand.

  She caught the Norwegian guard gawking at her, and he quickly averted his eyes. He looked confused, yet the sight of him sitting beside her in his neat and familiar uniform seemed to quell her nausea.

  After minutes of long, shivering breaths, her body quieted. She sensed her brain reasserting command of her rebellious, flinching limbs. Her mind gained focus as it worked to assemble her self-defense.

  She admitted that some personnel at the embassy might sympathize with Per. Yet they trusted in their jobs and did their duty. Per was confident about his betrayal only because he oversimplified his purpose. His case was like a fervent religious conversion. He was drawn in by the lure of absolutism. He turned belief into a fanaticism, which condones all its deeds as righteous. First you tell yourself, “Have faith in the cause,” then heinous acts in contradiction of your creed can be committed as if sanctified.

  Per had mentioned the enemy. Which enemy? she asked herself. No, the enemy is an actor’s mask. And we all take our turns. Haven’t I?

  Or was my deed an out-of-control, impulsive reaction? No, I had a chance to think about what I was doing. I let my feelings drive me on a crusade, all the way to its fatal conclusion. And people like me, like Per, like all of us, are hoping to design something wiser for humanity. But is our species too blind to create sight?

  AnDe spent the late evening at home, energized by the afterglow of acknowledged success. A well-earned feeling, he told himself as he flipped through his playlist of music.

  Then came a tap on his shoulder: the memory of the time he’d helped to plant a new community garden. When the work was completed, the leader had declared that the afternoon would end with a celebration. AnDe the teenage recruit thought the announcement meant the work was finished and that they would rest while the plants grew. Rest, as if there could ever come a time when the garden didn’t need tending, as if there could ever be a place in life where things didn’t keep changing, often for the worse, like rich soil being occupied by invasive weeds.

  He pushed aside that allusion as he chose a selection of heart-warming songs from old Broadway musicals. His spirit lifted as he listened to “Bali Hai” from South Pacific. He thinned the alcohol in his blood with mint tea and floated around his apartment with gliding steps, the mug in his swinging hand as his partner.

  In bed, his closing eyes presented him a vision of the sandcastle he’d built when he was eight years old. Pictures of one built by a classmate had excited his imagination, and when his parents took him on a holiday to the coast, he’d endeavored to build an even larger castle. After the walls of too proud a height had tumbled, he’d created a simpler structure with four walls, ramparts, towers, and a central gate. He based it on the recreated medieval city of Dunhuang on the old Silk Road. He knew it well from its routine use for movie sets. His castle could suggest equally fanciful stories.

  He’d rested with his back turned to the surf and admired the world he’d created. The roar of crashing waves and shrieking of children playing on the beach had faded from his awareness like the earlier, changing tide. Then a wave wet his bottom and came close to the castle. Fervid digging gave rise to a sea wall, but only in time for another wave to roll up on the barricade and send a shower of spray over the pressed-sand walls. With his head drooping, he stood limp in the realization that there was no fighting the tide. His castle would soon be washed away, along with his naïve assumptions.

  In the dream germinating from the memory, AnDe’s grandfather was laughing at him. His father’s father shook his head at his grandson’s vain belief that he could stand against superior forces. AnDe opened his eyes to escape, but now he lay alone, his dilemma unresolved.

  His direct orders had been in conflict with the general policy under which he operated. Abstention would have been the same as resignation, and fruitless. Asking for clarification would have been an undiplomatic catastrophe. In his position, he was supposed to find a way through; inadequate instructions could be no excuse. And so he’d laid out a route. He’d proceeded unaware of all his motivations until after he’d made his disclosures to Solveig. For months, he’d told himself they might be inconsequential. They might not lead anywhere. Then, after the day’s trials, he’d savored the success, believing that idealistic policy could prevail.

  Linger there briefly, as you did today, he thought, but the question will come back, as sure as the tide. An accounting will have to be made, and you may have a price to pay. And for what?

  AnDe sat up in bed, pulling together his knees and wrapping his arms around his legs. A swarm of merry lit
tle penguins frolicked on his pajamas. Yet in his sinking mood he groaned at them and looked away. The ample but plebeian bedroom and study was deadened in a silent grey from the lights of a city that never pretended to sleep. His desk at the far end held reminders of his work, and photographs of his parents and grandparents. He ran his hands once through his hair to rinse the dream-world images from his mind. Yet those who were part of him would not be dismissed so easily.

  Lowering his forehead to his knees, he asked himself what had happened to those dreams, those sandcastles from his youth. He was forty-one and single, without even a lady friend. He’d had a successful and promising career, until now. Even assuming the project succeeded, there would be those above who would be unhappy about it and suspicious of him. There would be consequences.

  “And what should you expect after your disobedience?” demanded the often-recurring specter of his Confucian grandfather. “You have painted yourself into a corner. What a disgrace!”

  Seeking refuge, AnDe could hear his grandmother’s standard repartee to her husband. “You can’t know what will be best; you can only know whether you’re trying to find your true way.” Her vague reference to mystical Taoism for once giving comfort.

  He sought further, keeping a distance from the more emotion-laden images of his two parents. He could imagine his other grandfather reassuring him. “You had good intentions; you followed your heart and did the best you could.” Yet this time the compassionate Buddhism was too simplistic as a resolution or for exoneration.

  He ended by recalling favorite phrases of his mother’s mother. He imagined her formulating her husband’s thoughts into a pragmatic framework. “It is not a question of doing right or wrong. Those terms lead you into an unreal, binary world of polar extremes. In a field of many possibilities, your quest is to act wisely; and sometimes what might appear as wrong is wiser. It can be a dangerous choice. Just remember, wise is more important than right.”

  His muscles eased, and he let go of his arms from around his legs. Sitting cross-legged, he placed his hands, palms up, on his knees. He closed his eyes and focused on his breath. It didn’t work.

  He thought of Solveig. Unaware of the events unfolding for her, he told himself she wasn’t conflicted in the same way as him.

  I was entranced by her clarity of purpose. I gave her information to help her quest for a Holy Grail. Now she might be chosen as the leader of one of the implementation teams. But, benevolent or not, the system she seeks could become dangerous. If we are to design an intelligence that can truly comprehend things humans cannot, we need to better understand the nature of comprehension itself.

  Maybe, he told himself as the idea became clear, like the bottom of a pond when the surface has stilled, she has given me the answer. Maybe coherency is the key to dispelling illusions. Yet we must proceed with caution. I must convince her—engage her to follow a more prudent path—if this first success is to be meaningful and worth its price.

  Chapter Nineteen

  She surprised herself, being the one to let the idea slip out: a distant retreat, just her and AnDe.

  In the two months since the breakthrough, when the Great Wall accepted the vital codes with the Protection Lock, numerous tricky scenarios had verified that the new AI, general or not, was performing as they had hoped. The World Electronic Analyst itself would generate a report on the project for the international assembly of delegates setting up the World Council. Once the joint Chinese-Norwegian team had specified certain inputs, mostly pertaining to a long set of operating recommendations, the teams could disband. Among those recommendations there remained only a few, sensitive issues.

  Two in particular corralled Solveig’s attention: who would be involved in the installation and implementation for the World Electronic Analyst, and which nations would have control over the code for the Protection Lock. AnDe had not stated a position on either of those.

  The installation of the physical equipment, in a new suburb outside Beijing, Solveig could just as well skip. But implementation involved translating and loading data dictated by the joint diplomatic legation setting up the Council, followed by initial testing and operation of the system using ongoing policy issues. Modifications might be demanded by the legation. And only by remaining involved while still holding the keys to the Protection Lock, could Solveig direct how her tool would be used. Or further developed.

  For the retreat, Solveig suggested a couple of days in the mountains of the recently expanded Huahu Scenic Area, a nature reserve she’d seen depicted in a Norwegian ski journal. It had newly-built rustic cabins and in snow-free months, hiking trails with expansive views. Although yurts were traditional in that region, she chose the solidity of stone cabins. They were built in a mix of styles for both foreign tourists and the increasing number of Chinese cross-country and biathlon skiers.

  AnDe had said he didn’t think the place worth traveling thousands of kilometers to. Then, at his suggestion, they added a day at the spectacular Jiuzhaigou National Park. Internationally famous for its scenery, he said it made the journey easier to justify. He had pitched it to his superiors as a holiday reward for Solveig and as a way to further impress and educate her about their country. His department ought to see that as desirable if she were to be selected for the implementation team. The Ministry of Technology had been skeptical, but the Foreign Ministry endorsed his idea.

  At dawn on a partly cloudy September morning, a car from the Chinese Foreign Ministry arrived at the compound. A man sitting beside the driver got out, and Solveig recognized him as the agent who had followed them to the Great Wall. She stuttered a greeting in Chinese.

  He made a deferential bow and then placed her bags into the trunk.

  “Good morning, Solveig.” AnDe stood on the far side of the car, displaying brand new, trim-fitting athletic clothes. “You might recognize this gentleman who helped us before. I requested him to be the one to escort us onto the military aircraft going to Chengdu.”

  On the tarmac in Chengdu, they boarded a ten-seat aircraft bound for Jiuzhaigou airport to the north. The flight climbed out over urban sprawl encroaching on farmland. Solveig spotted a farmer standing in a shimmering green rice paddy. From a distance, it appeared idyllic. She pictured doing such antiquated farming for a living and felt her lumbar stiffen in the poorly curved swale of the aircraft seat. She wondered whether those farmers were ever squeezed into poverty or starvation, and desperate for an alternative.

  Rising above the paddies came a dense black cloud of smoke from an adjacent power plant. As it billowed skyward, she saw in it the image of the dead thief. Yet as she looked closer, the figment faded. She glanced forward at the approaching hills with tea plantations and forests, then back again. The phantom, barely a wisp, disappeared before her eyes.

  The light was fading when they arrived at the inn where AnDe had reserved the only two rooms offered. The style was mostly Tibetan: the lower story of exposed rock walls and the upper story of plaster and timbers. Inside, the woodwork was painted in bright red and green. The dinner he’d ordered in advance was almost ready, and soon the two were sitting at one end of a large room decorated with Buddhist murals. The other end of the room was equally colorful, with shelves displaying a variety of metal cooking pots. In between stood a couple of empty tables, looking as lonely in the ample space as the yurts of shepherds in the open high valleys to the west.

  She made little effort to converse. There was too much to take in: the radical change in setting, the ending of the mission and the possibility of a new position, and the companionship of only one familiar figure. Instead, she listened with polite interest to his descriptions of the region and of the ways it differed from that of his mother’s family. Soon after finishing her food, she excused herself and went up to her room.

  Remaining in the dining room, AnDe found himself looking around with the anxiousness of a football fan who can’t wait until the anticipated championship game begins on television. A strange unease was bui
lding inside him, and he passed it off as an effect of the altitude. After a long day he still felt energetic and restless. From his perspective, the adventure had begun when they landed at their destination airport. They had received a government car that was self-driving and that could also be driven. Had it been light enough, he could have launched out for the park, Solveig beside him, and enjoyed the sunset views.

  As it was, he got to his feet and watched the kitchen activity from the area between the empty tables. An older woman wearing traditional Tibetan fabrics shuffled back and forth between the kitchen and dining area, clearing the dishes. Like a curious school boy, he shot questions at her—about the age of the building, the size of her family, and whether she’d ever been to the region of his grandmother’s ancestors—allowing no chance for her attention to drift after each brief answer.

  “You sound like an eager young man about to be married,” she commented while clearing the table where he and Solveig had sat. “Anxious to learn about the bride’s family. But you know, one won’t find many young women right around here. No, they either marry young or leave.” She paused to examine him. “Are you looking?”

  They left the inn before dawn, and with special clearance, he and Solveig entered the park before its normal opening hours. They strolled on boardwalks and paved trails. They passed several lakes, some shimmering turquoise, others mirroring the yellow and red autumnal foliage. As they ambled side by side, he let the surrounding natural beauty speak for him.

  Solveig lingered at one viewpoint facing the mix of colors in the nearby trees and sky: red, yellow, white, and blue. The lake in front of her mirrored those colors.

  Watching her, AnDe raised up off his heels, then settled himself.