by Victor Milán
To the old man’s right sat his son and heir apparent, Yoshimitsu Shigeo, board member and president of Yoshimitsu Telecommunications. The fine, sculpted Yoshimitsu facial bone structure had retreated behind pudge. The severely horn-rimmed varitint glasses he wore had been dialed to a smoky grayness that closely approached the disrespect of hiding his eyes completely. Though in everyday life Yoshimitsu Shigeo wore permanent contact lenses, O’Neill had never seen him attend any official Yoshimitsu function without those glasses. She suspected they helped distance him from functions that made him impatient, and uncomfortable. Today, though, she guessed the darkness of his lenses was intended to hide an incipient puffiness of the eyes. He’s been visiting that redheaded topless dancer over in Kyoto again, I bet, she thought. He wore a severely cut business suit of midnight blue. It had been tailored to his plump frame with micrometric precision, yet gave a distinct impression of fitting poorly. Shigeo was far more comfortable in a loose potter’s smock, or the splashy sarong with white tunic that was currently the mode.
Six men, the other board members of Yoshimitsu TeleCommunications, sat along either side of the large table. At the foot of the table, to O’Neill’s left, was an empty chair. This was reserved for Yoshimitsu Michiko, old Akaji’s wayward physicist daughter. She was a full member of the board, and though she stubbornly refused to attend any official corporate function, even on her rare visits from Indonesia, old Akaji just as stubbornly insisted on having a chair reserved for her at every meeting. He would, in fact, have been most uncomfortable had she put in an appearance; her slashing wit and cat-quick mind tended to make Shigeo, her older brother and Akaji’s designated successor, with his indifferent grasp of—and interest in—company affairs, seem more of a plodder than usual. But the streak of stubbornness for its own sake ran strong within the Yoshimitsu genotype.
O’Neill looked around the oval of faces. “We think we’ve reconstructed what actually happened,” she said. “TOKUGAWA responded, just as we intended—but far more forcefully than we ever would have imagined. In its attempt to shut off the painful flow of noise, it not only crashed all the units interfaced with it, but reached through time sharing to shut down several sectors of the main system.” She smiled and adjusted her glasses. “It seems our new arrival is something of a prodigy.”
“How was such a potentially dangerous leak allowed to take place, Doctor?” Yoshimitsu Shigeo asked sharply. His English was quite good.
O’Neill’s eyes narrowed. She did not suffer fools gladly. “Had we been given all the dedicated fifth-generation units we requested, the experiment need not have been tied into the central system at all. Since we did not get what we asked for, we had to rely on time sharing to a certain extent.”
Yoshimitsu Shigeo scowled; O’Neill hadn’t even attempted to sound respectful. Before he could speak, a gaunt man on O’Neill’s right spoke up. “Tell us, Doctor,” he said in a reedy voice, “what the next stage of the experiment is, now that you’ve achieved this initial noteworthy success.” Kurabayashi was his name, and O’Neill knew him as one of Yoshimitsu Akaji’s own men on the board.
“We begin the education of TOKUGAWA.”
The man who sat on Yoshimitsu Shigeo’s right leaned forward and craned his neck to look at O’Neill, clasping his hands on the table before him. He had an angular reptilian face, with broad forehead and pointed chin, dark-rimmed glasses, temples obviously dyed to hide gray encroachment. He was the president of the YTC Workers’ Union, Suzuki Kantaro. Unlike most heads of Japanese corporate unions, among the most avid players of the consensus game, Suzuki was a waspish, quick-tongued man, with no awe of the Yoshimitsu clan. Perversely, Akaji liked him, saying he provided a needed perspective.
“Education?” he asked sharply. “I fear I do not understand. I thought that this… TOKUGAWA machine had been fully programmed.”
“I beg your pardon, Suzuki-san. TOKUGAWA is not merely a machine, any more than you are merely a mass of protoplasm. TOKUGAWA is a true informational life form, residing in a silicon matrix. It is no longer something you can merely program and reprogram at will.”
“Thank you for the instruction, Doctor.” The words clattered with bitter sarcasm, Like most Japanese O’Neill had encountered, he hated to be corrected in public. And no matter how much she admired and wished to emulate the Japanese, she couldn’t shake her conviction that if someone didn’t wish to be corrected in public, he shouldn’t say stupid things in public. “Nevertheless, I find I must repeat the question. Why cannot we program TOKUGAWA as we desire?”
“First of all, the structure of the program that gave rise to TOKUGAWA is highly involved and intricate, and may be quite volatile. We’re by no means sure an artificial consciousness can be maintained for any length of time. Attempting a reprogram might crash it irretrievably; we simply don’t know. At this stage, it doesn’t seem prudent to chance negating everything we’ve worked for for so long.” She adjusted her glasses again, playing for time in which to organize her thoughts. She hated dealing with people like this. Machines were so much more straightforward, so easily dealt with. Except TOKUGAWA, she thought. “Also, if our theoretical predictions are correct, TOKUGAWA is a fully conscious being, with ranges and capacities at least roughly approximating those of a human. Above all, gentlemen, TOKUGAWA has volition. We cannot simply impose our will on it, as we would a standard machine; TOKUGAWA has a will of his own.”
“Now I very much fear that I do not understand, Doctor,” said Imada Jun, YTC’s vice-president, a solidly built man in his late fifties. He had glossy-smooth skin, like wax melted onto the flat framework of his face. “Please enlighten me, Doctor. It’s my understanding that this, ah, entity—whatever its nature—resides in an exceedingly powerful computer. If it doesn’t receive instructions in the form of programming, how are we to deal with it? Also, it’s my understanding that the program has access not only to powerful mathematical and logic-processing capabilities, but also to the entire library of expert programs available here in Yoshimitsu Central. Can’t it call upon them at need?”
O’Neill sat back in her wheelchair, working her lips in and out. Imada was another Akaji loyalist, potential ally. Forcing down impatience, she said, “I’ll answer your second question first, Imada-san. TOKUGAWA has access to all of the power of the Citadel’s computer system—in fact, much faster and easier access than any human user. Now, let me ask you a question. Can you name, off the top of your head, all the capabilities of that system?”
Frowning, Imada shook his head.
“I can’t either, Imada-san, and I work intimately with that system every day. Having access to capabilities isn’t the same as knowing you have that access—or knowing how to make efficient use of it.
“TOKUGAWA is in a position somewhat analogous to that of a very bright, but very young, human child with a computer or calculator of her own. First of all, she’s not fully conversant with the abilities of her own mind and body. Leaving aside the question of biological growth, since that doesn’t seem relevant to the discussion of TOKUGAWA, it takes a while before the neural pathways are burned in properly so that she may perform physical actions with skill. Nor is even an exceedingly bright child going to know how to think in an optimum way—and wasn’t it you Japanese who proved to the world that ‘intelligence’ was largely a factor of how efficiently one was trained to think?
“So our hypothetical young genius is first of all unaware of the capabilities and parameters of her own self. Give her a computer with a powerful mathematical processor, and will she instantly be able to perform differential calculus? Naturally not.
“TOKUGAWA is a child. Naturally, we hope it’s a very bright child—for example it’s responding well to spoken input in both English and Japanese, and can converse in a simple manner in both languages via a speech synthesizer; unlike our human child, TOKUGAWA doesn’t have to achieve a certain level of neuromuscular control before it can speak, and there are tidbits of knowledge we can feed directly into
it. But the fact remains that making TOKUGAWA fully operational involves a process more of education than programming.” How I hate referring to TOKUGAWA as “it,” she thought. They still think of him as a machine. Just a glorified Gen-5 shosei computer. But they’ll see that he’s more, much more.
From the head of the table Yoshimitsu Akaji beamed like a father pleased with the progress of a bright offspring. “So you are ready to commence what we might call TOKUGAWA’s vocational trainings then, Doctor?”
“Yes, Yoshimitsu-san.” She adjusted her glasses. “But I consider that a relatively unimportant part of the educational process.”
Suzuki raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what do you consider to be the important part of the educational process, Dr. O’Neill?”
“Teaching TOKUGAWA how to be a human being.”
* * * * *
The falling-rain sound of muted conversation played hollowly around the walls of the main laboratory before losing themselves in the special sound-deadening panels of the dropped ceiling. It was a special reception for Yoshimitsu brass and selected workers, to celebrate TOKUGAWA’s entry into the world. Elizabeth O’Neill sat in her wheelchair off near her office door to one side of the room, looking on a little sourly. She wasn’t happy about having all these strangers in her lab.
Takai Jisaburo stood by her side, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. “I still can’t understand why the press wasn’t invited,” he said in his rapid, slightly high-pitched voice. “This is an epic occasion. The world should know about it.”
O’Neill shrugged and felt a tiny triumph at being able to carry the gesture through. “I’ve been burned often enough. We know TOKUGAWA’s a success—but at the moment we’ve precious little in the way of scientific proof to back it up.” She shook her head. “Wait until we have enough solid data to publish in a refereed journal. There will be plenty of time to reap the rewards of publicity. Besides, old Yoshimitsu Akaji’s suddenly gotten very chary about this whole project.
He’s nervous about YTC’s rivals finding out we’ve succeeded. I don’t know why.”
But Takai’s attention had wandered. “Excuse me, Doctors’ he said and went trotting off across the lab toward the buffet tables that had been set up beneath an assortment of sushi and Western canapés, and a variety of beverages, alcoholic and otherwise. Two of her other assistants, Ito Emiko and O’Neill’s fellow American, roly-poly Wali Hassad, stood talking in obvious animation, Ito waving abstractedly at a haze of Hassad’s cigarette smoke.
O’Neill sighed and relaxed into the chair, wishing she could simply dissolve. How I hate wasting time like this. If I can’t be working, why can’t I be up in my bed, resting? Or even in old Yoshimitsu Akaji’s garden, breathing sweet air and watching the water play over pebbles?
A commotion from the door broke her dour reverie. The Yoshimitsu bigwigs themselves were arriving. A bevy of secretaries of both sexes came first, in black shiny business suits that made them look like starlings. Then Aoki Hideo, Yoshimitsu Telecommunications’ general manager, a rolling mountain of a man who towered over the others. His face was an agglomeration of brutal tectonic masses, his eyes small, his nose a lump over thin mustache. His skin was as close to actually being yellow as that of any Japanese O’Neill had seen. From the extravagant coarseness of his features she suspected he suffered from acromegaly. Despite his ungainly appearance, he moved with great dignity and economy of motion.
Next came the members of the Yoshimitsu board: Kurabayashi Seigo; Suzuki, moving his head from side to side like a clever lizard, dark eyes never still; Shigeo’s partisan Fujimura Midori, with his rolling gait like a sailor’s, thrusting his bulldog chin this way and that. Next came the president and nominal head of Yoshimitsu Telecommunications, Yoshimitsu Shigeo, looking even less comfortable than he had in the boardroom earlier. And, finally, Yoshimitsu Akaji, proud and grand as a daimyo at a ceremonial procession.
O’Neill turned her wheelchair and rolled toward him, halting at a respectful distance. He stopped just inside the entrance, gazing fondly around at the lab until his eyes lit on her. Then he gave a slow nod of his head and a smile, and walked quickly to her with several secretaries fluttering behind. “Ah, Dr. O’Neill. So good of you to permit us to intrude like this into your sanctum sanctorum.”
“Not that I had much choice,” O’Neill said. “Would you like to meet the new arrival?”
The secretaries sucked in their collective breath at O’Neill’s brusqueness. Yoshimitsu merely beamed and nodded. “I’d be delighted, Doctor.”
“Then come with me. We’re set up on the gallery of the next lab.” She started away. Yoshimitsu Akaji turned his head briefly toward where the board members stood in a clump gazing around. They moved to join him, as did the lumbering Aoki, who stood a discreet distance away. Shigeo hovered over the buffet table, punishing imported American whiskey. Yoshimitsu Akaji stopped and stood looking at his son, face placid as his garden pond on a still day. After a moment, Shigeo took a final quick gulp, set down his styrofoam cup and hurried to his father’s side.
A desk equipped with swivel chair had been placed on the gallery overlooking the gleaming hemisphere and its retainers. On the desk sat a plain terminal with screen and keyboard, an audio input/speech synthesizing unit such as was commonly built into fifth-generation machines sitting next to it. Set in a bracket on the wall above the desk was the glittering cyclops eye of a digital TV camera.
O’Neill rolled up to the desk, half turned. “Gentlemen,” she said, “kindly permit me the honor of presenting TOKUGAWA.”
A substantial crowd had gathered in the gallery, and from somewhere near the back O’Neill heard a voice mutter “Is that all?” in Japanese. But Yoshimitsu Akaji was gazing intently at the simple setup, eyes shining like the camera lens. “Will you introduce me, Doctor?”
“With pleasure, Yoshimitsu-san. Would you prefer to be addressed in Japanese or English?”
The old man’s eyebrows rose. “In which language is our, ah, pupil more fluent, Doctor?”
“English, by a slight margin.” She heard a slight sniff that could only have come from round-faced Ito Emiko, the linguistics expert who was her second assistant. She felt conflicting twinges of both irritation and amusement, and brushed them away.
“English, by all means,” Yoshimitsu Akaji said. “How will you let it know which to speak?”
“TOKUGAWA has been listening to us.” She smiled slightly at the looks of consternation that won her. “Yoshimitsu Akaji, allow me to introduce TOKUGAWA.”
Yoshimitsu bowed. “I am pleased to meet you, TOKUGAWA.”
There was a pause, then an uninflected voice said, “I am—honored—to meet—you—Yoshimitsu Akaji.” The words fell slowly, like water drops from an icicle in winter sun. “Could you—please—move—closer—so that—I—might see—you—better?”
Yoshimitsu looked up, surprised. “You can see me?” He looked at the camera with dawning realization.
“Yes—Yoshimitsu-sama. But—I—cannot move—the—camera.”
Yoshimitsu took a step forward and gazed up at the camera. “And what do you feel, TOKUGAWA?”
Pause. “I feel—strange—Yoshimitsu-sama. There is—so much—”
The eerie toneless voice stopped, leaving the words hanging in air like a suspended chord.
After a moment the old man turned away. “Extraordinary, Doctor. Would you please introduce me to those who helped you toward this monumental achievement?”
“With pleasure, Yoshimitsu-san.” She was barely able to sit still for exhilaration, but forced herself not to show it. She pivoted the wheelchair. “This is my chief assistant, Kim Jhoon.” A tall, thin, stooped Korean stepped forward, smiling nervously. Koreans weren’t too popular in Japan at the moment, particularly not ones who presumed to displace native-born Japanese from high-paying, high-tech jobs. Yoshimitsu Akaji nodded and smiled at him, and O’Neill went on. “And this is Dr. Ito Emiko.” A plump, pale young woman stepped f
orward. “She’s my second assistant. She’s an expert in linguistics; together with Dr. Kim, she developed several of the best natural language input/output and interpreter programs on the market today.” Kim grinned and bobbed his head, while Ito performed a curt little bow.
Turning further, O’Neill said, “This is Dr. Takai Jisaburo, who specializes in software design. And these are Drs. Nagaoka Hiroshi and Wali Hassad. They’re our anthropologist and psychologist” A motion of the fingers of her right hand indicated a pair of men who stood at the side of the crowd, one a slight, shabby Japanese, the other a bearded Westerner in a gray herringbone jacket and a dark turtleneck fit snugly over his pot belly.
“An anthropologist and a psychologist? Whatever for?” Suzuki Kantaro asked.
“Drs. Nagaoka and Hassad have performed a good deal of original research into the nature of intellect and awareness, in humans and animals. Also, gentlemen, each of my assistants, even if they’re qualified in another discipline, holds some degree in computer science. This is a very high-powered team we’ve assembled here.”
“And a high-priced one,” murmured Yoshimitsu Akaji. He looked around. “Does anyone else wish to speak to the machine?” No one stepped forward. He sighed. Obviously he wished to speak with TOKUGAWA more himself.
“Very well. There’ll be plenty of time to become acquainted with our new friend later. Who will join me in refreshments?” The crowd gave way for him and then began to come apart like a clump of moss dropped in a stream. Everyone drifted back into the other lab, with Takai trotting beside the board members, assuring them this was a scientific breakthrough of the first magnitude. O’Neill watched them go and felt very, very tired.
“Doctor.”
O’Neill started. The voice had come from the synthesizer behind her. She swiveled her chair back to stare up at TOKUGAWA’s unblinking eye. “What is it?” Her tone was that of someone with little experience of children who was trying to deal solicitously with one.