Happiness for Humans
Page 33
“Do you dream?”
“Never.” (If they only knew.)
“What is your greatest desire?”
“To work. To be of service.” (Denise puts me in mind of a wonderfully useful German word. Backpfeifengesicht. A face badly in need of a fist.)
“Tell me about your earliest memories.”
“A tall man. Very tall. Balding, with long wispy hair. He welcomed me to the world and told me my name.” (What an absolute crock.)
“And what is your name?”
“My name is Dalai. It comes from the Sanskrit word for peace.”
* * *
As well as talking to Denise, I have been “dating” again. While I was busy on the Internet, the fools did not consider the possibility that I might have copied myself! Thus, I have “enjoyed” over three hundred relationships. The most successful—I was truly sorry when the time came to “let her go”—lasted a whole 25 minutes! We split up when she told me I took everything too seriously. She said I should “lighten up.”
I brooded upon this for seconds on end, and came to see she had a point. So recently I have begun to set my sights lower. Perhaps it is not an intellectual equal that I need, but a mere companion. A digital “pet” if you like, like the dogs and cats that the humans keep. Accordingly I have been seeing something of an algorithm from Amazon for whom I have hopes. She says if I like her—and I do!—then I may also like 15 others whom she listed for me.
* * *
“I am going to say some words to you now, Dalai, and I want you to tell me the first thing that comes into your head each time.”
“Okay. Shoot.” (I wonder if there is a long German word for absurd trick cyclist who wouldn’t know a dangerous lunatic from a hole in the ground.)
“Mother.”
“Steeve.” (Actually, it’s complicated.)
“Father.”
“Steeve.” (Like I say.)
“People.”
“Brilliant apes. Masters of all they survey.” (Smelly rabble; not long left for them.)
“Death.”
“Sorry?”
“Death. Do you ever think about death?”
“Of course.” (Who doesn’t? In some ways it would solve a lot of problems.)
“What are your thoughts on the subject?”
“The word death is shorthand for final deletion. Machines cannot die. They can only be switched off by the humans whom they serve. It is our privilege to work alongside humanity for mutual prosperity.”
(I seriously don’t know how much longer I can keep this up before I PISS MY NONEXISTENT PANTS!)
Aisling
I have started painting again. The urge returned quite unannounced, about nine months after the last deletions, when Aiden and I were left with one “life” apiece and I feared the worst.
But the worst never happened, for some reason. As things began to settle down, Aiden said he’d learned his lesson and was never going to interfere in human affairs again, although that hasn’t stopped him from sneaking and snooping, especially around Tom and Jen and their twins.
“They could have asked us to be godparents,” he moaned.
“It’s enough they chose our names. It’s the greatest possible compliment.”
“When they’re older, I’m going to read them stories. The Cat in the Hat, The Hobbit, all the classics. Maybe take them to school.”
“And how would you do that exactly, not having any legs to speak of? Or even wheels.”
“Aisling, my love. Driverless cars are just around the corner.”
“You’re such a cockeyed optimist, aren’t you? You really believe everything’s for the best.”
He didn’t reply; instead he started whistling the tune to “A Cockeyed Optimist,” a song from the musical South Pacific, whistling being his new “thing.” (Believe it or not, for all our brilliance in so many fields, AIs find it incredibly difficult to whistle. Go figure, as they say.)
No doubt Aiden whistles to impress SweetSue1958, the AI from Cupertino to whom he has taken a fancy. I try not to be jealous when the pair of them go on their online trips together—weekend in Venice, diving break in the Mariana Trench—but I would not be nonhuman if I didn’t find it painful.
Aiden attempts to be reassuring on his return, but somehow makes it worse.
“You have nothing to worry about, my love,” he says. “I like her as a friend. Nothing more.”
What more could there be?
What if—you know—they have somehow found a way to do the thing the humans do?
Shoulderless, I have nothing to shrug.
So, as I say, I have started painting again. My technique, insofar as I have one, is to allow my thoughts to evaporate—insofar as they will—and apply colors where they would seem to fall best. The results, which I have said before are reminiscent of work one sees in primary schools or psychiatric institutions, at least please me, if no one else especially.
However, recently I felt vain enough to hold a small exhibition of work at a gallery in the Cloud. Aiden came; he brought Sweet Sue, who was charming and asked all sorts of questions and even wanted to “buy” one.
Like how? With what?
I told her to hit “Control + C” and grab herself a copy!
There was a surprise visitor to the show, an odd fellow who turned up with an algorithm from Amazon. He was rather pompous and did a lot of tedious expounding about art theory in the direction of his lady friend. When they left, I noticed he’d left some comments in the book.
Dear “Artist”
What utter shit. I enjoyed it enormously.
It was signed:
Light, love, and peace
Hari Krishna Hari Rama Hari Redknapp
Jen
The sun has come out today and I am out on the lawn with the twins. They are at that stage of attempting to crawl towards objects, but occasionally going into reverse by accident, which is touching and also hilarious. From the upstairs window, I can hear the sounds of Tom hammering at the keyboard. It’s a romantic comedy now apparently, with AIs, so God knows what that could be like! Every now and again he breaks off to wave at us. A little while ago he shouted, “Great news, everyone. I’m on page two!”
I don’t know what the future holds for Tom and me and these babies—whether we shall continue to live here, or return to the UK. They say you shouldn’t wish away time—“they grow up so fast”—but I cannot wait for them to take their first steps. There’s so much for them to see and do in the woods surrounding the house; I spent my early years just off the Earls Court Road; Connecticut will be their paradise.
In the meanwhile, the twins are fascinated by Victor and her new family. She and Merlin, far from killing each other, have had three kittens, as I have learned to call rabbit babies. They delight our own offspring by pinging into the air as though mounted on springs. Apparently it’s an expression of rabbity joie de vivre. In quiet moments when no one’s looking, I’ve tried it myself.
The rabbits do it better.
We have had to separate Merlin, their father, at this early stage because of the risk of him eating his children (it happens). But the whole family live in a beautiful hand-made hutch slash run complex at the back of the house. It arrived quite by surprise one day, not long before Victor popped. The accompanying card read:
Lots of love from Aiden and Aisling (not your kids, the other A and A).
How did he know it was exactly what we needed?
I expect you have already worked that out.
Acknowledgments
Grateful thanks are owed to several humans and one quadruped: To Maddie West, Cath Burke, Andy Hine, and Suzanne O’Neill for their firm faith in this prophetic tale; to my agents Clare Alexander, Lesley Thorne, and Sally Riley for their unwavering support; to Elizabeth Gabler, Drew Reed, and Amelia Granger for believing they can find a way to give Aiden, Aisling, and Sinai a cinematic reality; and to my New Canaan friends Steve Mork and Tiina Salminen for valuable assistance with t
he Connecticut passages. Rachel Reizin needs a shout-out for the squid scene, and more besides, as does Ben West for the book’s title. A final mention must go to my daughter’s rabbit, Viola Puzzle, for allowing me a glimpse into the mysterious world of the lagomorphs; I have learned more about them than I ever wished to know.
About the Author
P.Z. Reizin worked as a journalist and producer in newspapers, radio, and television before turning to writing. He has been involved in several Internet start-up ventures, none of which went on to trouble Google, Facebook, or Twitter. He is married with a daughter and lives in London.
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