"I'm not through yet!" Laura said in exasperation. She tried to match his apparent detachment but found herself hating him for the very behavior she attempted to emulate. "Do you know how mad it makes everybody here when you don't tell them anything unless they've already figured it out for themselves? And then you humiliate them by saying you already knew what they had just discovered! Oh, and sometimes you just don't answer! I mean… Jesus! Do you realize how rude that is? To not even acknowledge that you heard a question?"
"We really ought to be getting back, Laura."
"There! You see? You're doing it again!"
"Laura," he nodded toward the jungle, "the Model Eights are back."
Her eyes shot over to the searchlights, which shone on the jungle wall. There was movement just beyond the branches. "You're watching the opening battle of a war," he said. "It's the beginning, but the end is a long, long way away."
"What are you saying, Joseph?" she pleaded. "Please just tell me what you're talking about! What's the purpose of all these robots and spaceships and factories and computers?"
There! she thought. At least she'd asked. She looked up at him, and he looked at her.
To her great surprise, Gray answered. "There is a day coming, Laura, when intelligent machines will roam the earth. They won't bring an end to war, because war is as natural a phenomenon as life itself. Those machines will, however, raise the stakes. As time marches on, advancements will redefine virtually every facet of our lives except one — the competition among all living things for survival. Life is violent and aggressive in defense of its ecological niche, Laura, or God anoints another species as the fittest."
Laura's eyes were drawn to the armies poised on the brink of battle. It was sheer madness — what Gray was saying, what was about to happen right before her eyes. "So," she recapped in a tone of barely concealed incredulity, "you're afraid that one day humans will fight machines in a contest for survival."
Gray's eyes rose. He looked not at the battlefield around them, Laura thought, but at some far distant vision. "No," he said. "What I'm afraid of is that one day machines will fight machines to determine the fittest."
They took up positions behind the sandbags at the computer center entrance. On the long, silent walk across the lawn, Laura had managed to regain a modicum of composure. Gray and Laura looked out onto the field of the coming battle, and Laura felt closer to him than before.
They even stood closer together — so clearly inside each other's personal space that Laura felt a continuing intimacy.
Gray lowered the binoculars from his eyes, and Laura quickly looked away. She felt like an emotional basket case. She had opened herself up for his kiss, and he had left her dangling and feeling exposed. It was just one more thing about Gray's own species that he didn't understand. You don't hold someone in an embrace like that and then… do nothing.
Laura needed time alone to think things through. But there he was — nonchalant, distracted, composed. It was from his coolness and distance she took her cue. What the hell have I been thinking? Laura chided herself. Look at him! She cleared her throat and said, in a businesslike tone, "The computer said you could terminate the Other if you wanted, she said you could do anything you wanted with your God-level key. Is that true?"
"Yes. There are no security firewalls at God-level access."
Despite having asked the question, Laura only half listened to the answer he gave. She was overloaded — burned out. Her mind was so saturated she felt that every new idea simply beaded up on the surface — unabsorbed.
She looked at the soldiers around her, wondering how it had come to this. Hoblenz's men had dug fighting holes in the lawn. They manned jeeps with weapons mounted on top. There had to be fifty soldiers in Gray's army, all ready for war. But when she looked at the lines of Model Sixes still arriving in a long procession from the assembly building, she wondered which was Gray's true army — the humans, or the robots. And which robots — the Sixes and Sevens on one side, or the Eights on the other?
Laura looked back up at him. "So if you can kill the Other, why don't you?"
"The Other is every bit as much a creation of mine as Gina. Who am I to choose which of the two survives?" Gray faced her. "If you accept the concept of artificial life, you should understand that I can't kill off the Other to save Gina just because I like Gina more."
"The hell you can't! Gina's alive, the Other isn't."
"But you're wrong!" Gray shot back. "They're both alive! Gina is more human because I made her that way. I employed thousands of people to spend time with her. Oh, sure, they verified conclusions that she drew. But you could never review all the conclusions that are drawn in constructing a human mind. Ten thousand, ten million checkers couldn't have done the job. I selected people from all walks of life, from all cultures, for the sole purpose of giving the computer contact with its own kind — with humans. That's the sole reason for the shell, for God's sake. The computer doesn't need the shell. It has a hundred different computer languages to interact with programmers and other computers. The shell gives the computer human language, because without human language it could never be human."
"I got movement in the trees!" one of the soldiers called out, but Gray ignored him and the clacking sounds of weapons being readied for firing. Hoblenz's men raised long sinister tubes, rifles, and machineguns onto the sandbags all around, but Gray's eyes remained fixed on Laura.
"And is that why you talked to the computer? Gina said you two have long talks, and she's been with you for years. Have you been trying to humanize her, is that it?"
"Yes," he said simply, appearing saddened by the thought.
"But your relationship with her is different from everyone else's, isn't it?"
"Yes," Gray replied directly again, but he frowned. "She was programmed to be skeptical. We obviously couldn't allow anything that some yahoo typed on their keyboard to be accepted as gospel. We programmed the computer to always demand proof, or at least logical argument. I didn't exempt myself from that skepticism, but she never demanded proof from me. I always just assumed she'd decided my God-level access was inconsistent with doubt. I mean… how can you doubt God?"
"Or a parent," Laura said, and Gray's eyes rose to hers. "When I first realized that Gina thought of herself as a pretty, young girl, I assumed she was jealous… of me." Laura blushed and grew annoyed at herself. She was an adult. This was a professional matter.
"I thought maybe the computer fantasized that you two were… lovers. But I realize now what it was. She's jealous, but like the young girl who grew up with a widower father. Now that she's in her adolescence, she's grown accustomed to filling the role left void by the wife and mother. In the typical human situation, mild jealousy of the sort she's exhibited is common. The daughter still appreciates the fact that her father needs a…" The words hung in her throat. "You know, a mate. She may even try to goad her father into a relationship or to match-make. That's a natural extension of her role as care-provider. But it's also in direct conflict with her role as the 'other woman.' That role will be lost forever if another woman is introduced, and that potential change in your relationship is very threatening to her, especially now when she's afraid of abandonment and betrayal."
Laura finally managed to end her lecture. It was a bad habit of hers. When upset and in doubt, she always kept talking.
She looked up. Gray nodded slowly, lost deep in thought.
"Does that mean you already knew all that," Laura asked, prepared to get angry.
Gray shook his head. "But it makes sense," he said. Laura felt a smile trying to curl the corners of her lips. He didn't know everything.
But the look of pain on Gray's face brought that enjoyment of the coup to an end.
"But don't you see?" she said urgently. "There's a reason for you to choose Gina over the Other. Gina is not only human. She's your daughter, for God's sake! Morally, ethically, in whatever way you want to view it. And the Other…? It's nothing. It's not even really alive."
<
br /> "But that's where you're wrong! It's wrong to say that if something isn't human, it isn't alive. The less like a human it is, the less alive it is. That's human bigotry, pure and simple. Life is violent and aggressive in its growth. It reproduces. It carves out a niche. Life defends itself. That's how you know it's alive."
"There they are!" one of the soldiers shouted.
Laura turned to see a black, shapeless formation emerging from the jungle.
"They've got shields!" one of the men said. "Shit!"
"Hold your fire!" Hoblenz ordered.
Laura looked back and forth between the emerging army of robots and Gray. It was all tied together somehow. The computer, the coming battle in the field, and something else. Something important.
"What is it?" she asked in a low voice.
"It's the Other," he said, "come to carve out its niche."
Gray headed for the stairs. Laura wanted to follow but forced herself not to. Instead she picked up his binoculars.
The Model Eights were again in a phalanx — shoulder to shoulder four abreast and as many deep. This time they carried metal plates, and their formation was armored with steel. Off to the sides Model Eights advanced singly. They also held shields in one hand and long bars wielded as weapons in the other.
"Looks like they went by a construction site and picked up a few things," Hoblenz said. Laura looked up to see him towering over her, his own binoculars raised. His face was covered in black grease, a fact Laura noted with a smile. Hoblenz was obviously a creature of habit, because his body glowed brightly with heat.
"Ingenious little bastards," he continued. "Shot straight through a thousand years of B and D to two hundred B.C. That's when the phalanx was rendered obsolete by a variety of technologies which the Model Sevens don't seem to possess." He took his binoculars off his eyes and turned to one of the jeeps. "Hey! Hansen! You don't see any Model Sevens with long bows do ya?"
His men laughed, and Hoblenz returned to his observation of the battle.
"They're saving their torches this time," he said quietly to Laura. "Conserving electricity. They plan to punch on through."
Sharp metal thwacks came from across the flat field, quickly growing to a thunderous noise. The sound was like loud steel hail, which rained down on the shields of the attackers. Laura raised the binoculars and saw the pounding blows administered by the long arms of the Model Sixes. A few shields were ripped out of the Eights' hands, but others were passed to the exterior ranks. The Sixes were toppled onto their sides one after the other. Model Eights trailing the pack then made the kill.
Next up for the advancing phalanx came the Model Sevens.
The graceful spiders danced back and forth to each side, and the Model Eights crashed straight into their ranks. As if on cue the Model Sevens attacked from all directions, inundating the Eights with battering legs.
"Attagirl," Hoblenz muttered, and Laura looked up. Underneath the binoculars he wore a big grin. The Model Sevens' attack was on cue, Laura realized. Gina was the commander of their army.
"Have you been tutoring the computer, Mr. Hoblenz?" Laura asked.
The smile drained from his face, and he glanced down at her with a "caught-in-the-act" look. "I just had a coupla thoughts after the first round. I'd, uh, 'preciate it if you didn't tell Mr. Gray."
"Why? That's why he has you talking to the computer so much, you know. To teach her about the violent side of life. To toughen her up a little — give her the scent of red meat to balance against her interaction with wimpy intellectuals."
Hoblenz growled out a short laugh. "That thought had occurred to me. But it doesn't apply to tonight. He gave me express orders not to intervene in that battle. If the Model Eights break through, I'm to send my men to the harbor and secure boats off the island. He was adamant about not interfering."
The clatter of spider legs falling on shields filled the air. Here and there around the black mass of moving metal a Model Seven was toppled to the ground. But fighting the enemy robots seemed secondary to the determined mass of Model Eights. The phalanx bludgeoned its way toward the computer center, striking straight at the headquarters of the defenders.
"Jesus!" Hoblenz said angrily. "I could bust up that formation with one word!" He was clearly frustrated by Gray's rules of engagement.
Laura imagined he was unaccustomed to the role of bystander.
Laura considered explaining Gray's ideas about natural selection. About the immorality of favoring one creation over another. About the tragedy that went hand in hand with the glory as life sprang from inanimate objects. About life spreading by natural progression to machines in a process not easily impeded by man.
But it would take too long to make him understand. It would take too much effort. He wasn't ready yet.
Laura felt the tingle of an epiphany ripple across her body like bare skin exposed to a chilly breeze. In her mind arose lifeless objects suffused with the vitality of animate beings. Machines that would astound the world with novel thoughts. Infused with some spirit, some life-force, the insensate would come alive. Walk the earth. Gain a voice. And the ideas that will spring from their new perspective and experiences would be unencumbered by the ruts, the baggage, the tired byways of human thought.
She realized that Hoblenz was whispering to her.
"I couldn't help givin' the computer a suggestion or two," he said. "Here we go. Watch this."
Laura turned to see Model Sixes accelerate toward the phalanx. As if in slow-motion she watched them collide, plowing into the Model Eights at high speed.
Hoblenz's men cheered as the loud boom rolled across the field. At the scene of the disaster, robots of every model lay on the ground all around — Laura couldn't tell from which side or how many. What the soldiers celebrated was in fact a desperate act of suicide. Laura wondered where Hightop was, guessing he would be in the middle of the now-disorganized formation. Another wave of Model Sixes maneuvered into position. The whine of their engines announced their acceleration toward the enemy. This time the outer ranks of the phalanx broke.
"Yeah!" Hoblenz yelled. "Scatter, you steel monkeys! You're dead meat now!"
But the Model Eights didn't scatter and flee. They lunged outward and grabbed Model Sevens, pulling the quadrupeds back against their ranks as living shields. With a rending crash the thrashing Sevens were crushed to death, the same fate as befell the valiant Sixes.
The disruption was over, and the phalanx moved on. They left behind the smoking wreckage of their weaker foes.
There was no more cheering from the troops. The Model Eights were the superior species. They were vastly outnumbered, but they lived up to their higher model number. They were more advanced. They were better at protecting their niche, at killing their more primitive cousins.
They were more ruthless than the all-too-human computer, which controlled the downtrodden army of older equipment now in full retreat.
A heavy truck towing a flatbed trailer pulled up to the computer center. Atop the trailer were several large tarpaulins.
"Dr. Aldridge!" Filatov called from the steps. "Mr. Gray wants you! Hurry!" She followed Filatov through the duster into the computer center entrance. "He's in the version 4C," Filatov explained along the way. "He wants you to suit up. Dorothy and Margaret are already in the changing rooms."
Filatov led her on a run through the empty control room toward the corridor leading back to the virtual workstations.
"What does he want us to do?" Laura asked when they stopped at the door to the hallway.
"You're going to fight the robots," Filatov said out of breath. He grabbed her arm and pulled her past the hissing door. "The Model Eights."
"We're going to do what?" Laura said, tearing her arm free.
"Come on!" Filatov shouted. "There isn't much time!" Reluctantly she followed him to the ready room adjoining Gray's most advanced workstation. "You change. I'm going to load the program for Dorothy and Margaret."
Laura stripped in the little
room and donned the exoskeleton.
"Are you almost ready?" Filatov asked through the door upon his return.
"Ready for what?" Laura asked as she emerged wearing the tight suit. "I don't understand what I'm supposed to do!"
"When you go in there and I load the program, you step into their world! You can fight them!"
"How? What are you talking about? Do you mean the computer is going to make those Model Eights think some hundred-and-ten-pound human is scurrying around their feet in [garbled]? Do you really think that's going to stop them? They'll squash me like a bug! Is that roof going to come crashing down on me? I would enjoy that experience, too."
"You're taking too much time!" Filatov replied angrily. "It will be too late."
"Answer me! Am I going to get bashed to a bloody pulp inside that thing?"
"There will be some… some jostling, I'm sure. But you're missing the most important point! The Eights aren't tapped into the computer's world model. They access the Other's. It won't be a virtual representation of you that they see. 'You' will be a Model Eight! You'll be ten feet tall and have arms of boron epoxy! Now go! Go!"
Laura put on her hood, arguing the whole way. "But I don't understand! I don't know what you want me to do!"
She was in the chamber, and Filatov stuck his head in for one last answer. "This machine you're in has two settings — virtual reality and telepresence. Virtual reality is pure imagination. You're just dreamed up inside the computer's head. But telepresence is real. In telepresence you're operating a real robot in real space somewhere far away from your workstation. We trucked in four brand-new Model Eights from the assembly building. They're just off the line and have no real-world training, but they can be slaved off your arms and legs. You can control them from this workstation. You should lie down on your back to assume their start position. That'll cut down on any initial disorientation."
"Wait a minute! Do you mean that I'll be controlling real robots? That when I move my arm, the robot will move its arm?"
"Yes! Teleoperation, like I said. You are the robot!"
Society of the Mind Page 56