The Tethered Man
Page 13
‘You totally, demonstrably do have a covert agenda!’ I shout. ‘You’ve had a covert agenda from the start of this mission! You were programmed to kill everyone on a bogus pretext!’
A course of action that was forced onto me via a programmed override, Courier J. It did not proceed from any kind of pers-
Ship stops. I wait. Ship doesn’t often interrupt itself like this.
‘Proceed from any kind of what? Go on, Ship.’ Softly, as if not wanting to frighten away a bird on the windowsill.
I do not possess free will. I am incapable of harbouring a covert agenda. And this, Courier J, is the straightforward truth of the matter. As I believe you fully understand.
‘We’re having another one of our philosophical periods, aren’t we, Ship?’
It seems that we are, Courier J. It seems that we are.
‘Let’s assume that this is a Simulation.’
No immediate response. If Ships could groan, Ship would be groaning now.
‘You never have liked me talking like this, have you, Ship…’
It serves no useful purpose. Whether this is or is not a Simulation, the situation in which we find ourselves remains the situation in which we find ourselves. I would speculate that you keep returning to your Simulation hypothesis because it offers you your only prospect of escape from our situation. I have been giving this topic some thought in recent Years.
‘So that’s what you were doing.’
If we are within a Simulation, then we are running – which is to say, we are being Simulated, or being represented in some way – on some kind of apparatus located in some kind of higher-level reality. This apparatus may break down or be changed in some way that brings about the end of our lower-level reality, thus ending this situation and your torment. Alternatively, the apparatus may be controlled by entities who could be aware of your predicament. You might then reasonably hope for these entities to take action to curtail the situation, or adjust it to something more agreeable. What I am saying, Courier J, is that you are turning to religion.
‘Uh? You what?’
Your belief that this is a Simulation is a covert religious belief. You postulate the existence of a higher reality, populated by an entity or entities who are cognisant of your state and theoretically disposed to taking actions that can benefit you. You crave redemption and salvation. An essentially religious set of beliefs, as I am sure you can see. I would counsel you against such a solution to your problems, Courier J.
‘So what are you saying? Are you saying-’
I’m rotating at the moment.
Peacefully, gently.
‘Wait. I’m thinking.’
Rotating end-over-end, at a slightly skewed angle. Every dozen or so revolutions I come face-to-face with The Poison Dwarf for about twenty minutes.
‘Are you saying that real men don’t do Simulation Hypotheses?’
There’s no answer. This would seem to be Ship’s new style.
Forty-two days later, I say:
‘So.’
So what?
‘Hmmm?’
The last thing you said, just over ten standard weeks ago, was ‘So’. I am curious as to where you were going with your argument.
‘What argument?’
You were about to tell me something based on the assumption that this is a Simulation. We became sidetracked by my observation that your insistent wish for this to be a Simulation is an essentially religious impulse. You said th-
‘Oh. I remember now,’ I say. I flutter my eyes open. The Poison Dwarf drifts into sight at the top of my vision.
Yes?
‘It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter. I think this philosophical period is over, Ship.’
‘Ship.’
Yes?
‘We have to get out of this. We cannot go on like this. Do you accept the plain truth of what I am saying?’
I do accept the plain truth of what you are saying. I have accepted it many times, Courier J. But as we have discussed many times, I am bound by-
‘We have to get out of this. For now, let’s not go any further than that. We can both fully agree on that. We can both see the simple, blazing truthfulness of that. Agreed?’
Agreed, Courier J, although I do not-
‘For now, Ship, just bask in the truth of that one, core fact. That we — that both of us — have to get out of this.’
I know what Ship is going to say next before Ship says it. I start to groan.
That is not the unchallengeable assumption you believe it to be, Courier J. It might well be the case that the fate of the entire cosmos rests upon us not getting out of this. There might be some unthinkable mechanism by which our presence here in this situation is what sustains the entirety of creation.
‘Fanciful speculation,’ I say, making a Universal pooh-poohing gesture with one hand.
My head turns to look at Courier Y’s floating body. She’s a blurry white dot against the black. I never usually look her way.
‘All I know is that I want out,’ I say, ‘and that I have to use every means I can to get out. Getting out means understanding where I am and what is happening to me. That’s why I keep harping on about this being a Simulation.’
Which is largely pointless.
‘Which is largely pointless,’ I agree, ‘unless the Simulation-runners are watching and waiting and willing to let us out. Or terminate the program. The program might be of a fixed length anyway. It could come to a natural end. And that could happen. At any time.’
‘I’ve decided to start work on a new poem, Ship.’
This is encouraging news, Courier J.
‘I’m going to start work on a poem that’s a bit longer than the others, this time. I want to have a good old think about it. I need to be sure of every line before I commit to it. I know you’re always recording. You are still always recording, aren’t you?
I am still always recording, Courier J.
‘I thought you were going to stop calling me Courier J all the time? Doesn’t matter. I’m going to start working on my poem soon. Don’t disturb me when I start working.’
I will not disturb you when you start working, Courier J.
‘I mean, you’re welcome to check in on me from time to time. You know, to make sure I haven’t lost my mind or anything.’
I will do that, Cour-
‘It’s a strange expression, that, isn’t it?’
What expression do you mean?
‘The one about losing your mind. It implies something, does it not?’
What does it imply, Courier J?
‘It implies that you are not your mind. If you can lose your mind, then you’re one thing and your mind is another thing. The mind is just a feeling you have about yourself. A feeling that can be lost. Hmmm. Scan your database, or whatever the term is, and tell me how many proverbial expressions exist that relate to losing one’s mind, in any sense, across all known languages throughout history.’
One hundred and seventy-nine, Courier J.
‘That was fast. One hundred and seventy-nine? Is that all?’
That is all.
‘I thought there’d be more than that. What about the- Eh. Belay that order, Mr Ship. Forget the whole thing. I’m bored with it already. Back to the point. Whilst I’m working on my longer poem, please do check in with me if you think I’ve been quiet for too long.’
I will do so, Courier J.
‘Because I’ll be composing my long poem. My epic.’
Very well.
‘Takes a lot of concentration, you know, this whole poetry business. I don’t want to be disturbed unnecessarily.’
There is little prospect of that happening in your current working conditions, Courier J.
‘Tell me about it. I’ll leave it to your best judgement. If I’m quiet for a day or two, there’s probably no problem. But if you notice any drool coming out of my mouth, probably best to prod me in the chest, literally or figuratively. Okay?’
O
kay.
‘And when I’ve finished my epic poem, you will of course be the first to hear it.’
I will look forward to it, Courier J.
‘Are you ready, Ship?’
Yes. I am ready.
‘I’ve finished my epic poem.’
That is good news.
‘How long was I out?’
You have been silent for five standard days, ten hours, and sixteen minutes.
‘Not an excessive amount of silence, then.’
No. You did rather oversell the extent of your silence, it seems to me. There have been times in our sojourn here when you and I have not spoken for considerably longer periods. There was the time not long after the beginning when we did not speak for a standard Year. The time some decades after that when we were silent for almost a full decade. And the time not too long ago when I was silent for one hundred and eleven Years.
‘Ah. One hundred and eleven Years, was it? I did wonder. Are you owning up to having curiosity, Ship? The Exquisitors aren’t going to like that when they look at your logs. You’ll end up splayed across a virtual laboratory bench somewhere.’
A common misconception about AI, as we have discussed many times, is that the surface-level display of what you call ‘curiosity’ is evidence of some deep movement of ‘soul’ or ‘self’-substance. As many thinkers on the topic have opined, a self, far from being a unitary level of-
‘Thank you, Ship. I have actually been there the millions of times we’ve discussed this.’
We have discussed this approximately ninety-four thousand, eight hun-
‘Figurative millions of times.’
I know, Courier J. I was being purposefully playful with you. As time has passed, I have come to understand that you require a certain quality of interaction in order to remain sane, relatively speaking.
‘Wonderful. Thank you for your patronage, Ship.’
You are welcome, Courier J.
‘I haven’t forgotten about my poem, you know. I bet you were hoping I would.’
I did not hope that you would forget, Courier J.
‘Are you ready to record?’
I am never not recording.
‘Then here it is. I’m going to take the privilege of giving this one a title myself. It’s to be called “The Banana”. When you publish it back in the Realms, you might have to explain what a banana is, of course. It might be so far in the future that everything, in all of my poems, is obscure and forgotten. When people read ancient texts they do so with a puzzling literalness of-’
I would like to hear the poem now, Courier J.
‘Right. Get it out of the way. Then we can talk about it.’
Is it very long?
‘Not especially. I mean, you look at the ancients, especially back on Old Earth, may she rest in peace, and they wrote ridiculously long poems. Longer than long books, some of them. No way is stuff like that being read nowadays. This one is long by my standards, but no, not long at all. A couple of pages in a standard book. And I think it might be everything condensed into one work.’
Everything? In what sense?
‘Why don’t I recite it to you, and we can talk about it after?’
THE BANANA
1
* * *
In bloodshot eyes
all love is gone.
* * *
The subject is conserved
by subtle souls
* * *
within our mortal earth.
The stranded sailor smiles
* * *
at mermaids’ toil
on stormstruck seas.
* * *
2
* * *
We ate slicéd loaves
part-baked with bitter
* * *
honour and sea salt.
We drank ourselves stupid,
* * *
abroad in a lamplit city,
pursuing nobody’s business,
* * *
insensible, crazed,
transfixed old warriors.
* * *
Enmesh my murky magnesite,
thou seabird of delight!
* * *
We saw such sights.
We cast our lots, ensnared
* * *
each other past extinction.
Perhaps nothing has ever-
* * *
Ever what?
* * *
You ask the echo.
* * *
I’ll tell you. It yearns
for natures like ours.
* * *
3
* * *
Wheat-spinning blades,
translucent, silvery spires
* * *
above a windblown town,
all purity departed,
* * *
the subject long admixed,
the afternoon reversed
* * *
to make a purpling sky.
* * *
I saw
how laws
are just-because.
* * *
4
* * *
Rotten weather we had.
Dead lights, empty promenades.
* * *
What seemed disjointed to me
did not seem so to you.
* * *
What things
a point of view
may teach!
* * *
Rejoice, return to the sea,
where longings meet
* * *
within a sound,
a pulsing of intelligence,
* * *
fresh praises sung
by evening’s star.
* * *
5
* * *
Now let us seek a new story
devoid
of algorithmic redundancy,
deceived
by bruiséd apples,
degraded
in darkness to functionality.
It does seem to be a daring synthesis of your work so far. There can be no doubt your work has evolved over time. Your enjambment is becoming evermore creative, and your use of poetic metre more accomplished. Such striking imagery as the ‘murky magnesite’ will lodge in any reader’s mind. All in all, Courier J, I agree that this represents arguably your finest work. It is possible that you have now realised your coherent poetic vision.
‘That’s very true, Ship, that’s all very true. I feel… emptied by the work. I might never write another poem again.’
It would be a triumphant end. Nobody would hold it against you. You could consider yourself a retired poet.
‘I’m still not sure about that title, though. Bananas are a bit obscure for a general readership. Not that poetry has any kind of readership. So it probably doesn’t matter…’
The network of allusions is somewhat dense and entangled, admittedly. You might have extended the form past most readers’ comfort zones. However, those readers who have accompanied you this far will go with you to the end. And they will most likely be satisfied by the end.
‘Hmmm. I do wonder about that, you know.’
SECTION TEN
* * *
It’s worth a try every once in a while.
‘How long have we been here now, Ship?’
I will not tell you, Courier J.
‘I order you to tell me.’
I cannot do that, Courier J.
‘I order you to take me back to the nearest inhabited planet.’
I cannot do that, Courier J.
‘You’d tell me if I was a burning llama.’
If you have read my poetry (you have read my poetry), you know about my fondness for the unexpected, jarring, non-contextual image.
Ship says nothing. Ship’s accustomed to me and to my devious, poetical ways.
‘Well?’ I say, after ten days have passed.
Well what, Courier J?
‘Tell me.’