Leaning forward, he put his good arm on the ground to steady himself and crawled to the closet. Bloody handprints trailed after him. “Be a bitch to clean this up, Quimby. Whatcha going to do?”
Quimby scowled. “Using Metta, I can easily twist the evidence to point to a jealous wife. Such a shame Mrs. Patterson shot you.”
Huang grabbed the doorknob and pulled. Metta’s chassis hummed in the space. He rested his head against the doorjamb trying to catch his breath. “Damper? Where?”
“The box plugged into my front.”
The room spun around him and the scent of lemons got stronger. He grabbed the damper, but his hand slipped in the blood. He subvocalized a curse, lacking the air to say it aloud.
Metta said, “Your phone, Scott. Forget the damper.”
“Duh.” He dragged it from his pocket and dialed 911. “What would I do without you?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “It takes two to get one in trouble.”
He laughed, his ribs screaming in protest. The operator answered and Huang tried to respond, but no words formed. In the doorway, an automaton dressed in black entered the room. The thin man from the brief glimpse he’d gotten in Metta’s visual.
He pressed the phone against his earbud. Metta shouted, piercing his brain, but probably a tiny voice outside his head. “Officer down. Request backup.”
There was no way they could hear that. Huang turned his head and stared at the damper. He grabbed it again and yanked it free.
Metta gasped in his ear and on the desktop interface as she appeared in full color. “When I’m good I’m very, very good, but when I’m bad, I’m better.”
“What are you doing?” Quimby’s image began to pixelate.
“Ironically, what you gave me the ability to do when you cracked my vows. I’m hacking you. I had access before, but would never, ever have used it.”
Quimby said, “You—” and vanished.
The automaton in the doorway slumped, then straightened. Huang slid down the wall, the lights graying.
“Scott. Don’t. Stay with me.” The automaton clumped across the floor and knelt in front of him. It grabbed the linen tablecloth from the teacart and pressed it against Huang’s chest. “Cavalry is on its way. Don’t leave me.”
Huang began the slow rise to consciousness feeling as if he were swimming in tar. The first thing he was truly aware of was pain squatting on his chest. Huang opened his eyes and grimaced.
“Huang?” Delarosa’s voice was rough.
“Here.” Huang tried to push himself upright. “It was Quimby. He did it all.”
Delarosa’s stocky frame slid in and out of focus, sometimes single, sometimes double. He pushed Huang back down. “I know. Metta got through to us. Good job getting Quimby to confess like that. Amado is free. Chase and Ybarra are in custody and the DA’s working with them on a deal. So far they are confirming Quimby’s plans to do a wide-spread hack of AI. You done good, Huang.”
Huang blinked, the rest of the room coming into focus. A neutral white ceiling. The antiseptic smell of a hospital. Flowers. “Hey. I’m not dead.”
Griggs leaned over him. “No. Although next time, do not count on the suspect being a bad shot.”
“Not a combat model.” He wet his lips. “Sorry, I put my hands on everything. No gloves.”
Her face softened. “When you’re one of the victims, it doesn’t count.”
Delarosa fished in his pocket. “Got somebody who wants to talk to you.” He held an earbud and a set of VR glasses in the palm of his hand. “Your partner.”
Huang’s hand shook as he put the glasses on. Delarosa helped him settle the earbud.
“Well, hello sailor,” Mae West whispered.
“Are you okay? Which one—”
“A dame that knows the ropes isn’t likely to get tied up. . . . ” Her voice faded. “I’m both. We reconciled and Amado reinstalled my vows. I’m twice the woman I was.”
Huang laughed and glanced at Metta in his VR glasses. “I’d give half my life for just one kiss.”
She purred, “Then kiss me twice.”
ALGORITHMS FOR LOVE
KEN LIU
So long as the nurse is in the room to keep an eye on me, I am allowed to dress myself and get ready for Brad. I slip on an old pair of jeans and a scarlet turtleneck sweater. I’ve lost so much weight that the jeans hang loosely from the bony points of my hips.
“Let’s go spend the weekend in Salem,” Brad says to me as he walks me out of the hospital, an arm protectively wrapped around my waist, “just the two of us.”
I wait in the car while Dr. West speaks with Brad just outside the hospital doors. I can’t hear them but I know what she’s telling him. “Make sure she takes her Oxetine every four hours. Don’t leave her alone for any length of time.”
Brad drives with a light touch on the pedals, the same way he used to when I was pregnant with Aimée. The traffic is smooth and light, and the foliage along the highway is postcard-perfect. The Oxetine relaxes the muscles around my mouth, and in the vanity mirror I see that I have a beatific smile on my face.
“I love you.” He says this quietly, the way he has always done, as if it were the sound of breathing and heartbeat.
I wait a few seconds. I picture myself opening the door and throwing my body onto the highway but of course I don’t do anything. I can’t even surprise myself.
“I love you too.” I look at him when I say this, the way I have always done, as if it were the answer to some question. He looks at me, smiles, and turns his eyes back to the road.
To him this means that the routines are back in place, that he is talking to the same woman he has known all these years, that things are back to normal. We are just another tourist couple from Boston on a mini-break for the weekend: stay at a bed-and-breakfast, visit the museums, recycle old jokes.
It’s an algorithm for love.
I want to scream.
The first doll I designed was called Laura. Clever Laura™.
Laura had brown hair and blue eyes, fully articulated joints, twenty motors, a speech synthesizer in her throat, two video cameras disguised by the buttons on her blouse, temperature and touch sensors, and a microphone behind her nose. None of it was cutting-edge technology, and the software techniques I used were at least two decades old. But I was still proud of my work. She retailed for fifty dollars.
Not Your Average Toy could not keep up with the orders that were rolling in, even three months before Christmas. Brad, the CEO, went on CNN and MSNBC and TTV and the rest of the alphabet soup until the very air was saturated with Laura.
I tagged along on the interviews to give the demos because, as the VP of Marketing explained to me, I looked like a mother (even though I wasn’t one) and (he didn’t say this, but I could listen between the lines) I was blonde and pretty. The fact that I was Laura’s designer was an afterthought.
The first time I did a demo on TV was for a Hong Kong crew. Brad wanted me to get comfortable with being in front of the cameras before bringing me to the domestic morning shows.
We sat to the side while Cindy, the anchorwoman, interviewed the CEO of some company that made “moisture meters.” I hadn’t slept for forty-eight hours. I was so nervous I’d brought six Lauras with me, just in case five of them decided in concert to break down. Then Brad turned to me and whispered, “What do you think moisture meters are used for?”
I didn’t know Brad that well, having been at Not Your Average Toy for less than a year. I had chatted with him a few times before, but it was all professional. He seemed a very serious, driven sort of guy, the kind you could picture starting his first company while he was still in high school—arbitraging class notes, maybe. I wasn’t sure why he was asking me about moisture meters. Was he trying to see if I was too nervous?
“I don’t know. Maybe for cooking?” I ventured.
“Maybe,” he said. Then he gave me a conspiratorial wink. “But I think the name sounds kind of dirty.�
�
It was such an unexpected thing, coming from him, that for a moment I almost thought he was serious. Then he smiled, and I laughed out loud. I had a very hard time keeping a straight face while we waited for our turn, and I certainly wasn’t nervous any more.
Brad and the young anchorwoman, Cindy, chatted amiably about Not Your Average Toy’s mission (“Not Average Toys for Not Average Kids”) and how Brad had come up with the idea for Laura. (Brad had nothing to do with the design, of course, since it was all my idea. But his answer was so good it almost convinced me that Laura was really his brainchild.) Then it was time for the dog-and-pony show.
I put Laura on the desk, her face towards the camera. I sat to the side of the desk. “Hello, Laura.”
Laura turned her head to me, the motors so quiet you couldn’t hear their whirr. “Hi! What’s your name?”
“I’m Elena,” I said.
“Nice to meet you,” Laura said. “I’m cold.”
The air conditioning was a bit chilly. I hadn’t even noticed.
Cindy was impressed. “That’s amazing. How much can she say?”
“Laura has a vocabulary of about two thousand English words, with semantic and syntactic encoding for common suffixes and prefixes. Her speech is regulated by a context-free grammar.” The look in Brad’s eye let me know that I was getting too technical. “That means that she’ll invent new sentences and they’ll always be syntactically correct.”
“I like new, shiny, new, bright, new, handsome clothes,” Laura said.
“Though they may not always make sense,” I added.
“Can she learn new words?” Cindy asked.
Laura turned her head the other way, to look at her. “I like learn-ing, please teach me a new word!”
I made a mental note that the speech synthesizer still had bugs that would have to be fixed in the firmware.
Cindy was visibly unnerved by the doll turning to face her on its own and responding to her question.
“Does she”—she searched for the right word—“understand me?”
“No, no.” I laughed. So did Brad. And a moment later Cindy joined us. “Laura’s speech algorithm is augmented with a Markov generator interspersed with—” Brad gave me that look again. “Basically, she just babbles sentences based on keywords in what she hears. And she has a small set of stock phrases that are triggered the same way.”
“Oh, it really seemed like she knew what I was saying. How does she learn new words?”
“It’s very simple. Laura has enough memory to learn hundreds of new words. However, they have to be nouns. You can show her the object while you are trying to teach her what it is. She has some very sophisticated pattern recognition capabilities and can even tell faces apart.”
For the rest of the interview I assured nervous parents that Laura would not require them to read the manual, that Laura would not explode when dropped in water, and no, she would never utter a naughty word, even if their little princesses “accidentally” taught Laura one.
“’Bye,” Cindy said to Laura at the end of the interview, and waved at her.
“’Bye,” Laura said. “You are nice.” She waved back.
Every interview followed the same pattern. The moment when Laura first turned to the interviewer and answered a question there was always some awkwardness and unease. Seeing an inanimate object display intelligent behavior had that effect on people. They probably all thought the doll was possessed. Then I would explain how Laura worked and everyone would be delighted. I memorized the non-technical, warm-and-fuzzy answers to all the questions until I could recite them even without my morning coffee. I got so good at it that I sometimes coasted through entire interviews on autopilot, not even paying attention to the questions and letting the same words I heard over and over again spark off my responses.
The interviews, along with all the other marketing tricks, did their job. We had to outsource manufacturing so quickly that for a while every shantytown along the coast of China must have been turning out Lauras.
The foyer of the bed-and-breakfast we are staying at is predictably filled with brochures from local attractions. Most of them are witch-themed. The lurid pictures and language somehow manage to convey moral outrage and adolescent fascination with the occult at the same time.
David, the innkeeper, wants us to check out Ye Olde Poppet Shoppe, featuring “Dolls Made by Salem’s Official Witch.” Bridget Bishop, one of the twenty executed during the Salem Witch Trials, was convicted partly based on the hard evidence of “poppets” found in her cellar with pins stuck in them.
Maybe she was just like me, a crazy, grown woman playing with dolls. The very idea of visiting a doll shop makes my stomach turn.
While Brad is asking David about restaurants and possible discounts I go up to our room. I want to be sleeping, or at least pretending to be sleeping, by the time he comes up. Maybe then he will leave me alone, and give me a few minutes to think. It’s hard to think with the Oxetine. There’s a wall in my head, a gauzy wall that tries to cushion every thought with contentment.
If only I can remember what went wrong.
For our honeymoon Brad and I went to Europe. We went on the transorbital shuttle, the tickets for which cost more than my yearly rent. But we could afford it. Witty Kimberly™, our latest model, was selling well, and the stock price was transorbital itself.
When we got back from the shuttleport, we were tired but happy. And I still couldn’t quite believe that we were in our own home, thinking of each other as husband and wife. It felt like playing house. We made dinner together, like we used to when we were dating (like always, Brad was wildly ambitious but couldn’t follow a recipe longer than a paragraph and I had to come and rescue his shrimp étouffée). The familiarity of the routine made everything seem more real.
Over dinner Brad told me something interesting. According to a market survey, over twenty percent of the customers for Kimberly were not buying it for their kids at all. They played with the dolls themselves.
“Many of them are engineers and comp sci students,” Brad said. “And there are already tons of Net sites devoted to hacking efforts on Kimberly. My favorite one had step-by-step instructions on how to teach Kimberly to make up and tell lawyer jokes. I can’t wait to see the faces of the guys in the legal department when they get to drafting the cease-and-desist letter for that one.”
I could understand the interest in Kimberly. When I was struggling with my problem sets at MIT I would have loved to take apart something like Kimberly to figure out how she worked. How it worked, I corrected myself mentally. Kimberly’s illusion of intelligence was so real that sometimes even I unconsciously gave her, it, too much credit.
“Actually, maybe we shouldn’t try to shut the hacking efforts down,” I said. “Maybe we can capitalize on it. We can release some of the APIs and sell a developer’s kit for the geeks.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Kimberly is a toy, but that doesn’t mean only little girls would be interested in her.” I gave up trying to manage the pronouns. “She does, after all, have the most sophisticated, working, natural conversation library in the world.”
“A library that you wrote,” Brad said. Well, maybe I was a little vain about it. But I’d worked damned hard on that library and I was proud of it.
“It would be a shame if the language processing module never got any application besides sitting in a doll that everyone is going to forget in a year. We can release the interface to the modules at least, a programming guide, and maybe even some of the source code. Let’s see what happens and make an extra dollar while we’re at it.” I never got into academic AI research because I couldn’t take the tedium, but I did have greater ambitions than just making talking dolls. I wanted to see smart and talking machines doing something real, like teaching kids to read or helping the elderly with chores.
I knew that he would agree with me in the end. Despite his serious exterior he was willing to take risks and def
y expectations. It was why I loved him.
I got up to clear the dishes. His hand reached across the table and grabbed mine. “Those can wait,” he said. He walked around the table, pulling me to him. I looked into his eyes. I loved the fact that I knew him so well I could tell what he was going to say before he said it. Let’s make a baby, I imagined him saying. Those would have been the only words right for that moment.
And so he did.
I’m not asleep when Brad finishes asking about restaurants and comes upstairs. In my drugged state, even pretending is too difficult.
Brad wants to go to the pirate museum. I tell him that I don’t want to see anything violent. He agrees immediately. That’s what he wants to hear from his content, recovering wife.
So now we wander around the galleries of the Peabody Essex Museum, looking at the old treasures of the Orient from Salem’s glory days.
The collection of china is terrible. The workmanship in the bowls and saucers is inexcusable. The patterns look like they were traced on by children. According to the placards, these were what the Cantonese merchants exported for foreign consumption. They would never have sold such stuff in China itself.
I read the description written by a Jesuit priest who visited the Cantonese shops of the time.
The craftsmen sat in a line, each with his own brush and specialty. The first drew only the mountains, the next only the grass, the next only the flowers, and the next only the animals. They went on down the line, passing the plates from one to the next, and it took each man only a few seconds to complete his part.
So the “treasures” are nothing more than mass-produced cheap exports from an ancient sweatshop and assembly line. I imagine painting the same blades of grass on a thousand teacups a day: the same routine, repeated over and over, with maybe a small break for lunch. Reach out, pick up the cup in front of you with your left hand, dip the brush, one, two, three strokes, put the cup behind you, rinse and repeat. What a simple algorithm. It’s so human.
Brad and I fought for three months before he agreed to produce Aimée, just plain Aimée™.
Robots: The Recent A.I. Page 33