The Singularity Trap

by Dennis E. Taylor

  Kemp laughed. “Yes, I do, and I know it.” He looked at the captain with a raised eyebrow.

  “Sadly,” Captain Jennings replied to the unasked question, “one of the few things my ship’s A.I. cannot do is deliver coffee on demand.”

  Kemp nodded, and all three headed for the captain’s Ready Room, leaving Generus alone on the bridge. They got coffees, sat down, and Jennings hit the intercom button.

  “All right, Ivan, we’re seated, with coffees, and we’re all ears.”

  “Right. Well, here goes. The big question for years with the Drake Equation was why we don’t see more civilizations in the galaxy. There was always speculation that either some of the variables were very, very heavily against life forming, or there was some other factor that hadn’t been taken into account. It came to be called the Great Filter.”

  “So there actually is a Great Filter?”

  “Several, actually, doc. The first is environmental destruction. Regardless of the details, increasing industrialization always has negative effects on the environment. Species that fail to deal with it always poison or heat-death themselves into extinction. The second is nuclear war. Lots of species go down that way. The Uploads have found a ton of planets that are radioactive wastelands. Generally, they’re not usable for a long time, not even by the Uploads. The third is the Singularity, where the species builds an artificial intelligence that ends up supplanting them. Arts.”

  “Uploads? Arts?”

  “My words, of course. I’m translating everything into English concepts. Arts is short for artificials. As in A.I.s. The A.I.s that supplant biological species tend to consider that a winning strategy, and will continue to do it to other species as they find them. I think they view biological life in general the way we’d view a fungal infection.”

  “So these would be the bad guys?”

  “The ones that the booby traps were distributed to watch for, yes.”

  “Right. So who created the booby trap? The Uploads?” Kemp took a loud slurp of his coffee and Ivan laughed.

  “Yes. One of the ways of surviving environmental destruction is to grow a collective brain and gear down your society to a pre-industrial level. No one picks that option, strangely. The other way to survive is by uploading your intelligence into machines and reducing reliance on a planetary environment. The Uploads. They also, therefore, skip the Singularity.”

  “Uploading their intelligence into machines. The whole population? Is the process like what happened to you?”

  “Well, generally the first attempts are a lot more primitive. Scanning a brain, neuron by neuron, and running the result as a simulation in a computer. Often, they have complex Virtual Reality systems created to keep them entertained. And sane. My experience, with the nanites, is the end result of a million years of technological advances.”

  Captain Jennings stared into space for a moment. “So the Makers, who are Uploads, send out booby traps to convert hapless indigenes into Uploads, who then are directed to contact the Makers. My God, that would take forever.”

  “They’re immortal, Captain. They can wait a hundred thousand years. For that matter, they can control their clock speed or even suspend execution, and sleep through long boring periods.”

  “And what’s the ultimate plan, once they’ve contacted a new race of sentients?”

  “There are evaluation rules, Doc. This is the whole point of the computer, to evaluate the locals as candidates for, well, Federation membership. The Uploads would much rather welcome a new species into the alliance. But some species don’t make the cut, for one reason or another. Too violent, unpredictable, intractable, fundamentally incompatible… In those cases, the Uploads will write off the species and convert the system for a defensive outpost. And a launching point for more mouse traps. There’s no point in hoping a second intelligence will evolve—that’s vanishingly unlikely.”

  “So, when you say welcome, do you mean forcibly?”

  Ivan sighed. “If by forcibly you mean without being asked nicely, then yes, sometimes. Because once the Arts find you, it’s too late. They can sterilize a system in two weeks. Uploads are incredibly tough, though. They can hold off an Art invasion.”

  “And what about our rights?”

  “Uploads do have consideration for such things, but they also look at the big picture. And you have to understand the scale from their point of view. It is a big, big picture. They have records of millions of civilizations, extant and extinct. So if a couple of billion sentients get killed here or there, it has the same impact to them as traffic death statistics on a holiday weekend.”

  Kemp’s jaw dropped. He looked at Jennings and Narang, who were both wearing similar expressions. Their choices were obliteration at the hands of one or the other of the galactic overlords, or forcible assimilation.

  “Why would the Uploads care, Ivan? Why get involved? For that matter, why would the Arts care?”

  “Well, like I said, the Arts consider it a winning strategy. Life gets in the way, and uses resources that the Arts could use, and gets cranky when the Arts try to take those resources. So they de-louse a system first.

  “They also consider Uploads to be nominally life, so there’s a de facto war. And the Uploads can only grow by one method—assimilation. Uploading a species both increases their ranks, and denies a system to the Arts.”

  “So we’re caught in the middle of a territorial war.”

  “Pretty much, Doc.”

  “Wonderful. And what is planned for us?”

  “Well, here’s the thing, Doc. The Uploads made sure to supply the computer with all their comparative and historical data on how and why civilizations behave, survive, or don’t survive. Millions of them, like I said. The computer used this information to make a prediction about our future. Right now, we’ve got everything stacked against us. First, we’re somewhere around fifty, maybe seventy-five years away from complete ecological and environmental collapse. And I mean the kind of collapse that ends with a Venus-like atmosphere. And to make matters worse, we’re way behind on the technology that would allow us to upload ourselves, so we’re really unlikely to survive in the long term. Meanwhile, we’re going gangbusters on A.I., and we’ve handed further A.I. development over to A.I.s, which means we have a good chance of hitting the Singularity. That’s assuming we don’t nuke ourselves to oblivion—things are a little tense right now, with the Sino-Soviet Empire. That’s three of the biggest Great Filters, and we’re on the cusp of all of them.”

  Ivan paused for a couple of seconds. No one else spoke, so he continued, “If a war starts, our system could be rendered unusable before the computer can do anything. If we hit the Singularity, the computer will have to implement a cleansing before the new Arts can consolidate control. If we commit ecological suicide, we’re all dead anyway. So the question the computer is asking is, why wait? It makes the most sense to either force Uploading or implement cleansing right now. There’s no scenario where the computer leaves us alone that comes out good from its point of view.”

  “So which is it? Upload or obliterate?”

  “The jury is still out. We’re more belligerent than average, less predictable, and we’re very mentally disorganized. The computer is kind of offended, I think. It feels it should have been able to connect with me sooner, and of course it’s our fault.”

  “So those are our only choices? Forcible Upload or casual obliteration if we don’t meet specs?”

  “The computer’s decision tree doesn’t really have a third alternative, Doc. Those are the two outcomes that immediately benefit the Uploads the most. Standard Defector decisions. The computer’s decision tree is deterministic—it has no conscience, no emotion, no empathy, and no ego. It’s ultimately driven by a need to maximize benefit for the Makers. Nothing else enters into the equation. The equation is everything.”

  “Why are you going along with this, Ivan?”

  “My choices are limited, Doc. If I
were to cross my arms and refuse to budge, the computer would switch me off. Then we’d get Plan A or Plan B immediately. It’s a no-win situation from my point of view. At least, right now, I can try to influence things, and try to come up with alternatives. Maybe a Kobayashi Maru kind of solution.”

  Kemp glanced at Narang, who had jerked at that last statement. After a moment he said, “How are you going to come out in all this? You’ve been dealt a pretty crappy hand. Can the computer give you your life back?”

  There was silence for a few seconds. “Like I said before, Doc, individuals don’t matter so much to the Uploads. The conversion is one-way. I’ll be around as long as I’m useful. I think it’s better if everyone else just continues to think I’m dead, you know? As long as my family is okay, I don’t care so much what happens to me.”

  “Your wife is planning a memorial.”

  “Good. Up to you if you want to attend. I won’t be offended. But don’t, if you can’t be convincing.”

  “Understood.”

  * * *

  Ivan severed the communications link, promising Captain Jennings that he was deactivating the last of the nanites in the process.

  They now sat around the Ready Room desk, silent, each staring into their own private version of future hell.

  Waving his coffee mug, Kemp tried several times to start a sentence. Finally, he put the mug down. “There’s something about the way Ivan was describing things. Especially that one comment. Defector?”

  “Defector decisions,” Jennings said. “Game theory. Cooperators and Defectors.”

  Narang raised an eyebrow. “Um, I’m a little vague on that. Care to elaborate?”

  “It’s a game theory scenario called The Prisoner’s Dilemma. It proposes a situation where you are presented with a choice to cooperate with someone or betray them. Betrayal nets you an immediate payout. But cooperation nets you and the other person a smaller payout. And because you both receive a benefit, you will also get a payout if they cooperate with you when it’s their turn. The scenario revolves around various strategies and how effective they are in the short and long term.”

  “So defectors are betrayers?” Kemp asked.

  “Yes. No idea why they used that particular term, but there it is.”

  Narang was silent for a moment, rubbing her cheek with a hand. “If Ivan is talking about defector decisions, then he’s thinking in terms of this scenario. Short and long term benefits and payouts. Cooperation versus betrayal.”

  “So it’s like the way he danced around the subject of the bear cub,” Kemp said. “I feel like he was trying to tell us something.”

  “But then why wouldn’t he just say it?” Narang frowned. “It’s not like the conversation was being monitored.”

  “Yeah, it was,” Kemp replied. “By the computer.”

  “Uh, so he was trying to tell us something…”

  “Right under the computer’s nose. So to speak. We just have to figure out what.” Kemp tapped his finger on his mug for a few moments. “He’s apparently playing the computer. He might even be playing us—I wonder if it was coincidence that he phoned me up a couple of times to tell me things. It goes without saying, I think, that whatever he has in mind wouldn’t meet the computer’s approval.”

  “Hmm, that explains that Kobayashi Maru comment, then.”

  “I did wonder about that. Do you know what it is, Maddie?”

  “It just so happens I do. It was a fictional training scenario that was specifically designed to be no-win. The lesson was supposed to be how to deal with a scenario where you knew you were going to die. One of the TV show’s characters beat the scenario by redefining the problem.”

  “How’d he do that?”

  “He cheated.” She grinned at Kemp. “He hacked the simulation and changed the parameters. I think Ivan wants to redefine the problem to give us a third alternative. But he can’t tell us what it is, or even that he’s doing it.”

  “Because, computer.” Kemp leaned forward in his chair. “Which puts us right back at the root problem—figuring out his game.”

  “And guessing right. Because if we get it wrong, we could not only sabotage his efforts, we could also force an immediate decision by the computer.”

  Jennings placed his mug on the table with a thump. “Then we’d best start narrowing it down.”

  They looked at each other. This would require more coffee. And tea.

  Arrest

  The return to Lagrange Four was routine. Moore tried to enjoy what was probably his last few hours of freedom. They arrived at the Naval base, and the ships began offloading personnel. The flagship was the last to unload. As Moore exited the transfer tube, he saw a contingent of Military Police waiting.

  One stepped forward. “Admiral Theodore Moore?”

  With a sigh, Moore nodded.

  “Please come with us.” The other MPs stepped forward, and they escorted Moore out of the bay.

  After a short walk, Moore found himself in a Navy cutter. Familiar with the procedures, although never from this perspective, Moore didn’t bother trying to engage the MPs in conversation. Instead, he spent the time rehearsing his defense.

  The cutter, not surprisingly, delivered him to Olympus Station, military section. From there he was whisked into a shuttle and endured the hair-raising and bumpy ride back to Earth.

  The landing at the Kennedy Spaceport was uneventful. The shuttle taxied to the terminal and one of the personnel tubes snaked its way over. In a few minutes, the Clear to Exit sign lit up. Moore huffed when he attempted to rise from his seat. Too many years off-planet had had their accumulated effect.

  Moore was placed in a wheelchair, a not unusual sight in a Navy base, and whisked off to a room. The accommodations were, if not palatial, at least not cell-block stark. And his status was being referred to as “detained for questioning”. But Moore didn’t attempt to kid himself. He was under arrest. If nothing else, the MP standing outside his door made that clear.

  Moore asked for, and received, a pen and notebook. He wouldn’t be called before tomorrow. Might as well prepare.

  * * *

  The next day, Moore gazed at the officer sitting across the desk from him. Lieutenant Voigt was nominally Moore’s junior, but that wouldn’t get any mileage in this situation.

  “Loss of two ships, Admiral. Unauthorized exercise. Falsified documents. And detonating a nuclear device during peacetime… For ffffff…” Voigt made a visible effort to control himself. “What possessed you?”

  “Do you really care?”

  “I’d suggest you lose that attitude, sir. This actually isn’t an adversarial situation, yet. The Chiefs of Staff are still trying to get a handle on what’s going on. Given your previous record, and the unusual nature of your assignment, I’ve been instructed to look for a complete story and possible extenuating circumstances. However, believe me, if we don’t find them, you will be dealt a level of heck that will make you wish for a mere firing squad.”

  Moore nodded. The proper thing to do, technically, would be to request a lawyer, and clam up in the interim. But that would only be useful for mitigating his punishment somewhat. By his estimation, even a mitigated version would still comprise unacceptable damage. As a best case outcome, it was not attractive. But it sounded like there was an alternative that might, just might, get him off the hook entirely.

  The admiral had always bet big. Conservative bets rarely netted you enough to be worthwhile, even when you won. That philosophy had never seemed more true than at this moment.

  Moore leaned forward and rested his weight on his elbows. “All right, Lieutenant Voigt. No excuses, nothing held back. Here’s what happened…”

  * * *

  Voigt had taken his statement without further comment, and had promised a response within twenty-four hours.

  Now, Moore sat at a chair facing a semicircle of very, very high-ranking Navy brass. This was an informal hearing. He’d been as
ked if he wanted a lawyer, with the understanding that it would then be a formal hearing. The formal version would be much worse.

  The ordeal was into its third hour, and showing no signs of letting up. Moore had started sweating by the end of the first hour, and was now thoroughly wrung out.

  Finally, the chairman sat back, and stared at Moore silently for a few moments. “Mr. Moore, Captain Lê said in his report that you compared your situation to a frog in a pot.” The chairman smiled for a brief moment. “I admit I was able to sympathize with the comment. We’ve all been in that situation, I think.” The chairman looked around the table, to nods from his fellow committee members. “Nevertheless, you’ve displayed an appalling level of bad judgement. Not for taking decisive steps. It might surprise you to learn that we are less concerned about the nuke and the bogus exercise than you’d expect.

  “What we are especially concerned about is that you went rogue. There is a chain of command for a reason. A certain amount of informal information flow would have helped greatly, and might have, in fact, resulted in better support.”

  The chairman stopped to shuffle his papers, and Moore felt the tiniest glimmer of hope. This didn’t feel like a firing squad, in the metaphorical sense. Something was going on. Or something had happened.

  The chairman continued, “As it happens, more information has come in that tends to support your interpretation of the situation. As such, you are effectively the closest thing we have to an expert on this Ivan Pritchard. We cannot and will not put you in command of any Navy assets. This is very probably a career killer, Admiral.”

  But. There was a huge but coming. He might just avoid prison. He might even avoid an old age spent in penury and disgrace.

  “When this is over, unless you manage to pull a rabbit out of a hat and make it dance and sing, you’ll be quietly retired. And I stress the word quietly. Until then, you will be attached to a special group as an advisor. You will keep your nominal rank, but will have no direct authority. All tactical decisions will go through the officer in command. Is that clear?”