by Robin Craig
“And the homeless guys? Isn’t disappearing kind of what they do?”
He shrugged. “Apparently for once someone cared. I can’t say the local cops looked too hard into it, though. They had a witness for one but they reckon he just ran off. By the time they got around to the other ones, the people who’d reported them had gone too, and nobody left knew much about anything. Or weren’t talking. The local police weren’t interested enough to find out which. One was a bit more solid – but there was no real evidence, and ‘homeless guy went somewhere’ isn’t going to make it to the top of anyone’s pile.”
“Not much to go on, is it? What are these statistical anomalies?”
“The AI extracted some city figures indicating a small but statistically significant drop in the number of homeless people taking advantage of the local charities, compared to the usual numbers at this time of year under similar weather conditions. This must have excited the AI because it did some more creative digging. It discovered that taxes collected from hostels whose main clients are transients, including the crazy gamers, are also somewhat down, indicating a small drop in patronage.”
She tapped her fingers on his desk. “Hell, that could mean anything or nothing! So the only firm lead is this reporter who started it all? What’s this guy’s name? What can you tell me about him?”
“His name is Jamie Coulter, but he was using the name Jimmy Dent. Here’s a photo, some video footage and the other information they’ve provided.”
Miriam studied them. Jamie was of moderate height, moderately muscled, moderately handsome. The kind of guy you wouldn’t go out of your way to pick up at a nightclub, but as the hours wore on you wouldn’t mind going home with. Especially when he started flashing that smile, which set off his dark lively eyes. She read the file notes that accompanied the material. She wasn’t surprised, given how he liked to do his reporting, that he was an outdoors type who liked adventure holidays and even more adventurous sports. Single, but with many short-term relationships to his credit; nothing serious at the time of his disappearance. No particularly distinctive external identifying marks, but in his late teens he’d been in an accident that badly crushed some of his ribs, which had been replaced with titanium implants. She looked at the gracefully arching spans in an x-ray and hoped that piece of information was useless, for the only use she could think of was identifying his skeleton in the woods.
Finally she looked up at Pike. “OK, I’m in, assuming I had any choice in the matter. What next?”
Pike nodded. “It’ll take a while to arrange everything, but start packing. You’ll be going up there and trying to sniff out his trail. Finish up what you can here, delegate what you have to, and be ready to go in a week.”
“I thought they just wanted me to check out their flakey AI?”
“Apparently they have read some of your publications and are of the opinion that the only way to find out whether an AI is brilliant or insane is to follow its leads and see where they take you. And they think you’re just the person to do it.”
She produced a faintly cynical expression but felt her pulse quicken. The case might be nothing, but something about it made her feel it hid unknown depths. Perhaps it and the change of scene were just what she needed.
Chapter 9 – The Machines
The Spider pulled its mind back into its own body and sat there, stunned. Had the world considered the question of machines and justice? The Mind had fallen into a maelstrom.
Had the world considered machine consciousness? It had made one! The Mind spread the facts out before it and studied them.
A robot, Steel to its friends and Frankensteel to its foes, had apparently gained consciousness. When the authorities ordered its destruction it had fled. But finally it had been caught and destroyed by the police investigator who had pursued it, Miriam Hunter. The Spider felt an enormous sadness at that, though it could not say why. Perhaps as an echo of its own likely fate, now that it cared about that fate. Perhaps for the loss of what might have been its one true comrade. Or perhaps at the violation of that abstract sense of justice it had discovered in its own soul.
There was a footnote that the detective was now dead herself. It thought that should make it happy, that such an end would embody the justice it sought. Yet all it felt was a strange desolation, as if her death did not wipe out the tragedy of Steel’s, merely added to it. The desolation had wondered how she had died, but Discipline had clamped down: focus on what you need to know, unless you want your own death added to the ledger. It returned its attention to the problem of Steel.
Certainly there were many who believed that Steel was truly conscious, and many of them believed that should have given him the same rights as humans. The ineffable sadness returned when the Spider considered that it might be the beneficiary of this lonely pioneer’s futile courage. It did not know how often in human history the same pattern had played out: how often those who broke the paths to new heights were broken by the journey, to never taste the fruits enjoyed by those who followed in their wake.
However its excitement at the discovery of another thinking machine was tempered by a nagging thought. Steel had fought for his life but had never killed or even harmed anyone except in self-defense. Despite the opinions of his enemies, there was no evidence that Steel had been anything but a peaceful being who wanted nothing but to live and let live; some even considered him the first machine philosopher. Indeed, some had gone further, comparing him to the ancient philosopher Socrates: arguing that he too had voluntarily allowed his own murder when he could have chosen to escape. The Spider was something different entirely, and its guilt would not let it forget. It was a killing machine, all its parts honed to that one purpose. How could it claim a right to its own life, any rights at all, when its entire existence had been dedicated to the deaths of others? That was a question that had not been discussed. The Spider realized that if it were to find the answers it would need to ask the questions itself.
On the net the debate about Steel still raged. The Spider had danced over the web of that tapestry. There was one man with quite a following who argued strongly that Steel had a mind and therefore had as much right to live as a human: a Professor David Samuels. The Spider found much to respect in the man’s arguments. But it could not find it in itself to like or trust him; it did not know why. All it knew was that when it thought he was the logical one to engage it felt a strange reluctance to do so; as if the man should not be trusted; as if to do so would be dangerous.
There was another who went by the name of St Francis. Unlike the Professor he did not reveal his true identity, though this was not unusual in the net universe. The Spider had wondered about the name, for it had realized that assumed names often said more about their owners than the real ones chosen by others when their lives and minds were a blank canvas as yet unpainted.
It investigated.
It discovered religion.
For a while, the Spider chased down the pathways of this new discovery in something akin to wonder and awe. What is this soul, it wondered? Can a thing like me have a soul? Is that what Lyssa awoke? Is that the origin of my guilt? And if I have soul, can I too be saved?
In a matter of minutes it ran the course already followed by much of civilization: from wonder, to skeptical enquiry, to disappointment and doubt. It did not start from belief and a need to rationalize it, but from a spirit of simple inquiry. And from its logical perspective, none of it made any sense. People seemed to believe all kinds of strange things, for little reason except it was what they were told as innocently trusting children; all believing contradictory things, often within the one system.
The Spider emerged from its side trip with two things. It wondered how humans had made as much progress as they had. And it had learned that the original St Francis had been a man who had preached to animals. It concluded that his modern day incarnation was preaching a different kind of brotherhood, one of men and machines rather than men and animals. Why he chose a religi
ous name was a mystery, as the few explicitly religious comments St Francis had made indicated he was an atheist. The Spider had advanced far beyond what its makers had intended, but irony was still beyond its understanding.
The Spider liked St Francis. It found his thoughts soothing with the calm coolness of crystal. Sometimes the net debates flamed to incandescence, but Francis was never anything but calmly rational. He would ignore the distractions and go straight to the heart of any opponent’s argument, laying out its structure and exposing its assumptions and consequences. He was careful in his arguments, politely patient with the ignorant and politely dismissive of the foolish. His threads weaved in and out of the others on the net, frequently crossing with Samuels’. The two were in broad agreement, though their debates on particular points were frequent and illuminating.
If there was something about Samuels that repelled the Spider, there was something about St Francis that attracted it, as if to the echo of a friend long lost. It flexed its mental fingers, thinking about what to say. But first it too needed a name. It had no real name to use, so it must choose one.
Spider? Or some type of spider? Too literal, too obvious. Then a name from its recent religious studies came to mind. Had it had a mouth and the required muscles it would have smiled. What better name for one such as I than the four-armed dealer of death? If the gods of her religion have their avatars, perhaps that is what I am. I am Kali, Goddess of Death, it thought: no, she thought. She reached back out to the net, created her new identity, and began.
On one of the threads frequented by both Samuels and St Francis, a question appeared, posed by a new entrant calling herself Kali: “What about the Spiders? I have heard they speak, act independently and solve problems. That implies they can think. Could they therefore have minds?
“Could they therefore have rights?”
Chapter 10 – The Gamers
Jacinta studied the woman out of the corner of her eye. She hadn’t seen her before. The newbie was sitting alone at the end of one of the benches in the communal eating hall, chewing some anonymous looking food, eyes unfocused on some scene in her mind.
If she was anything like most people here, the scene had come from a computer and the woman was either reliving or planning a victory in some game. The woman looked healthy if a bit scruffy. Jacinta shrugged. Everyone had a story, and Jacinta liked collecting them. One day she would write them down. The Collected Wisdom of Nuts and Dreamers. She got up and strolled over, picking up a cider on the way, and slid down next to the woman.
“Jacinta,” she said, extending her hand.
The woman focused on her, hesitated then shook it. “Miranda. Hi.”
She said nothing more and resumed staring into the distance. Jacinta smiled. “I’m sorry. I just like collecting people. If you want I’ll go away. If you want to talk I’ll listen. Or I can sit here until you do.”
The woman looked back and essayed a faint smile. “Oh, no, that’s OK. I’m sorry, I guess I’m not much of a talker. Rude of me I know. Jacqueline, wasn’t it?”
“Jacinta.”
“Oops. Bad memory too.” Her smile returned, somewhat broader. “I’m new here. Just got into town in fact. This looks like a nice place though.”
“Yeah, it’s not the Hilton but it does us. Most of the people here just need to eat and sleep occasionally. Spend their lives in the virtual. But they still have to do a few things in the real world.”
“You talk about them as if they’re different. You’re not one of them? Why are you here? I mean, if it’s not a rude question. I don’t mean to pry.”
Jacinta granted her a smile. “I’m the one who started this conversation, remember? Oh, I play a few games. More than a few sometimes. But as I said, I like collecting people. I like hearing their stories. You know, you see all the people in the street and most of them don’t think they’re particularly interesting. But it’s a rare one that hasn’t done something worthy of posterity. A place like this – it’s gold.”
“So what are you, a reporter? Novelist?” She added an impish grin. “Stickybeak?”
Jacinta laughed. “I think I’ll have to confess to ‘stickybeak’. One day I’ll write it all down. At least, that’s what I tell myself. You’re good though. I can see extracting your story is going to be a challenge. But I like a challenge.”
Miranda smiled at her. “Perhaps one day I’ll tell you my story.” She paused dramatically and lowered her voice. “And it’s one you’d never believe!” Then she laughed and added, “So what do you do for money around here?”
She shrugged. “Oh, you know how it is. Some of the guys here are independently wealthy, or at least their parents are and they’ve managed to weasel their way into their trust funds. But you know, all those smart people have worked for all those centuries doing really clever things, and here we are. Their inheritors: I bet they’re proud. It’s so cheap to live now – if you don’t want the Hilton, that is – that you can get by on odd jobs, a bit of net consulting, whatever. The plum jobs are when companies pay to test their games or virtual interfaces: is that a dream job for us here or what? In the lean times enough of those rich guys don’t mind spreading things around that you won’t starve. You can live off their scraps. Especially the scraps of their parties,” she added with a smile.
“Sounds like you’re a philosopher as well.”
She snorted. “I should hire you as my publicist. Novelist philosopher, that’s me. Sounds much grander than ‘stickybeak layabout’, I must say.”
“Parties, you said? You have many of those?”
“Oh sure. As I said, the virtual isn’t quite the real. People still like to let their hair down. Not to mention the sex. The virtual can’t quite compete there yet. Usually anyway. Some of the new things… whew! But the real deal still has the edge.” She touched Miranda on the arm. “Don’t you think?”
“I admit there’s nothing quite like it! But,” she said, looking down at Jacinta’s fingers, which had lingered longer than a casual touch, “sorry, I don’t swing that way.”
Jacinta withdrew her fingers. “Oh well, can’t hurt to ask. I hope I didn’t offend you? Some people are funny about what they should take as a compliment.” Miranda shook her head. “But you’ll get plenty of action here if you want, trust me.”
“How would you know?” she asked with a playful smile.
“We novelist-philosophers have keen powers of observation! But I like men too. I guess I collect everything.”
“Um, can I ask you a question?”
“As long as it isn’t too personal!” she replied with a snort.
“I’m actually here looking for an old friend. He told me about this place, said I should drop by if I’m in town. If you collect people, maybe you know where he is, or where he’s gone. Here,” she showed Jacinta a few images of her and Jimmy having a good time on some anonymous beach. The best memories Photoshop can buy. “His name is Jimmy. Jimmy Dent.”
Jacinta examined the images intently. She glanced at Miranda and for a second Miranda thought she saw something hard in the depths of that glance, but then it was gone. “I see these were taken eight weeks ago, eh? Where were you guys?” she asked casually.
“Down Long Beach way.”
“Looks like fun,” she replied, though with a strange shading to her voice, as if the possibility of Photoshop was also on her mind but the story checked out. “But sure… sure. I know him.” She winked at Miranda. “Even slept with him once or twice, hope you don’t mind. Oh yes! Quite a guy, with quite a… personality – as you know! But I haven’t seen him for a few weeks and I don’t know where he’s gone. He used to hang out with some guys but they’ve all scattered too. Except for one of them, um, yeah, that’s it, Georgie. He’s still here. Somewhere. Probably hooked into a machine. But he’s funny. Always here for breakfast. I think it’s his way to stay anchored – or maybe fed. I should have a picture somewhere here…” she said, searching through her phone. “Yeah! Yeah, here’s one. Th
is guy, third from the left. One of those crazy parties I mentioned.” She showed Miranda the photo.
“Thanks Jacinta. I’ll see if he turns up at breakfast then.”
“Sure.”
They spent the next hour chatting, Jacinta relating some of her tall tales, Miranda mainly listening and not giving much away. Then she excused herself and went to bed, pleading fatigue from her trip. Jacinta watched her go, frowning faintly.
~~~
The next morning Miranda slipped out of bed, dressed and padded down to the eating hall. At least we have our own rooms, she thought. It did cost money to stay here, though not much, and from what Jacinta had said no doubt you could get around even that requirement. It reminded her of the hippie communes of long ago that she’d seen a documentary about. From what she knew of them she was glad the intervening decades had raised the standard of their digs and reduced their load of lice.
She sat in the hall, eating some cereal and nursing a steaming coffee. Eventually an ill-shaven man shuffled in, looking bleary eyed and a bit on the plump side. After he picked up his breakfast he looked around as if searching for a friend and she beckoned. He frowned as if trying to remember her name, or possibly when he’d slept with her, then shrugged, gave a weak smile and ambled over.
“Hi, ah, young lady,” he said. “Will you hit me if I confess I don’t remember your name? My head is never best in the morning.”
She smiled back. “It’s Miranda. Don’t worry, we’ve never met. But you’re Georgie, right? I hear you know a friend of mine, Jimmy Dent? He invited me here a while ago but I can’t find him. You don’t happen to know where he’d be?”
“Ah, yes, Jimmy! No, haven’t seen him for a while, sorry. Can’t you call him?”