After On

by Rob Reid

  AI Isn’t the Future—It’s the PRESENT. The Future Is Centaurs!

  I just beat three grandmasters at chess—and I’m not even that good! Although I must qualify this. Twice. First, I was generously aided in these timed-move games by a 1995 chess program called Fritz 3 (F3). Also, I’m “not good” at chess in relation to grandmaster play. Unless you’re a grandmaster yourself, I likely play better than you do. And so, in addition to being “not good,” I’ll immodestly add that I’m “not bad” at the game.

  My wins came at last week’s Centaur Confab (CC), an annual event held on the fringes of the DEFCON conference in Las Vegas. CC showcases the synergies that arise when human and machine intelligences pair into “centaurs” (so named after the human/horse mashups of Greek myth). For my games to qualify for the exhibition, it had to be clear that the grandmasters would smash either me or F3, were we playing alone. As I’m ranked a lowly candidate master (three levels below grandmaster), my inferiority went without saying. Each of the GMs that we bested had also notched multiple audited victories over F3. Yet united as a team, we were victorious. And as the games’ public records show, it wasn’t especially close.

  Of course, ever since Deep Blue beat Garry Kasparov in 1997, the top chess players have been digital. So F3 and I were next pitted against Fritz 16, which is widely considered to be the world’s top chess software. Once again, we won as a team. And once again, it wasn’t especially close.

  Though good entertainment, our exhibition games were in no way unprecedented. Most grandmasters will confess to playing far better when aided by software themselves. Likewise, were chess software sentient (and honest!), it would confess to playing best when teamed with humans. Chess, then, is a realm in which human smarts augmented by machine intelligence is the most formidable force in the known universe. And as the Confab’s various exhibitions showed, it is but one of many.

  Also on hand were several oncological teams that have collaborated clinically with IBM’s Watson software, which is best known for besting the world’s top humans on the quiz show Jeopardy. Peer-reviewed data show that human/Watson teams have achieved higher cancer survival rates than any cluster of American doctors over the past decade.

  As for how Watson does on its own, look no further than China’s Gansu Province; a remote, poor region with few oncologists per capita. In a bold experiment, Gansu’s government has partnered with IBM to deliver Watson diagnostics to patients who would otherwise lack access to specialists. Though still preliminary, the data strongly suggest that though Watson is far better than no oncologist, it underperforms all human teams elsewhere in the country. So while human doctors acting alone still outperform Watson, the best outcomes obtain when the two join forces. Further proof of the superiority of centaurs abounded at the event, where human/machine teams triumphed in investing, design, sports writing, traffic routing, and even matchmaking.

  The reasons for centaur dominance vary from field to field, but one typically finds the human contributing more creativity and team strategy, while the computer plays the flawless tactician. This was certainly the case with F3 and me. A not-bad coder, I wrote an interface into my partner’s analytical engine, which showed me which moves and strategies it was considering at any given point. In a timed game, one mustn’t bark up unpromising trees as the clock winds down. F3 tends to besiege each and every tree it encounters, whereas I (to exhaust the metaphor) operate more at the forest level. So I deployed F3 in the directions that I found most promising, and together, we were formidable.

  A similar strategy was used to entertaining effect in the field of songwriting. Top British cryptographer Simon Dennison is also a self-described “dismal guitarist in a poorly regarded pub rock band,” who never once wrote a melody. Yet in less than an hour of collaboration with a program called Wolfgang, he crafted a perfectly delightful pop song. The session began with Dennison strumming a simple, and rather unpromising three-chord progression. Wolfgang sassed this up into about a dozen different versions, altering pitches, tempo, rhythm, and so forth. Dennison liked the third option, so the two of them embarked down that path, and the progression gradually grew more complex and melodic. When Wolfgang later presented a series of bass lines to accompany it, Dennison again picked a direction, and together they refined it.

  Throughout their session, Wolfgang analyzed innumerable follow-on possibilities, presented some objectively unique and palatable ones, then made further exhaustive explorations under Dennison’s guidance. In this, Dennison was like a master pruner, slashing uninteresting branches and focusing Wolfgang on the most subjectively promising ones. While not “Brown Sugar,” the result could probably hold its own on pop radio if produced with good vocals and studio musicians. Dennison himself could never have achieved this. And having heard some of Wolfgang’s solo compositions, I can attest that the software couldn’t have either.

  There are, of course, limits to the realms that centaurs can dominate. No human can enhance software performance in areas that are deemed analytically “solved.” Tic-tac-toe is one such domain, in that computers have been able to take any game to a draw or a victory since the 1960s. Checkers was solved in 2007, Texas Hold ’Em in 2015. But chess has not been solved, nor has the Chinese game Go (whose best solo player has been digital since 2016). And songwriting almost certainly never will be. Politicking, flirting, parenting, and many other inter-human fields are also considered inherently unsolvable (for now, anyway). This doesn’t mean software won’t ever eat your profession. But at a time when self-driving cars, dexterous robots, and digital paralegals are threatening millions of jobs, the Centaur Confab provided many promising signs that humans have a vital role in the future, however digital it may be.

  When Tarek came by to visit Kuba earlier today, the police clearly expected him. A sergeant approached the instant he arrived in Central Booking, then guided him straight to Kuba’s cell. Things unfold almost identically this time around—with the small addition of Tarek’s own arrest at the outset.

  “Welcome to my world,” Kuba says, as Tarek enters the cell. As the sergeant removes his cuffs, Tarek somehow conjures the mental space to be surprised that Kuba’s perusing a giant iPad.

  As if reading his mind, the sergeant mutters, “I’ll tell ya, you guys must have great lawyers.” He nods toward the iPad. “I never seen that permitted to an arrestee. And now you two’re roomies! To better coordinate your stories, or somethin’.” Shaking his head in a mix of disgust, shock, and grudging respect, he exits.

  “Gee, thanks so much for luring me here,” Tarek reproaches once they’re alone.

  “For what?”

  “For calling me and telling me to come here. It was an ambush!”

  Kuba shakes his head. “That wasn’t me. My voice must have been spoofed.”

  “But it sounded just like you, and the call came from your number!”

  “We’re dealing with a master hacker here.”

  Keen to hide his hostility from Phluttr’s all-seeing eyes, Tarek stifles his reaction. But this no longer serves any purpose, does it? Because it’s checkmate. They’re doomed! So he might as well say, “Fucking Phluttr is really out to screw us, huh?”

  “Not necessarily,” is Kuba’s astounding response. “Yes, the police were persuaded to arrest us. But they’ve also been manipulated into giving us remarkably good treatment.”

  Huh? This gives Tarek pause. “Like the iPad?” he asks.

  Kuba nods. “Also, it’s supposed to be orange jumpsuits upon booking for felons. And we’re in for Beasley’s murder. Yet we’re both in street clothes.”

  Tarek snorts. “So should we write Phluttr a thank-you note?”

  “Why not thank her directly? I’m sure she’s right here.” Kuba holds out the iPad. It’s online, and displaying a story about some naval maneuvers in the South China Sea.

  Stifling a shudder, Tarek shuns the device, asking, “Why do you say ‘she’?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe because she’s reminding
me more and more of Susan Marion.”

  Tarek recalls Kuba’s analogy between Phluttr and his eighth-grade class’s oppressor. “I’m so sorry I never met that bitch.”

  “Oh no, you’re not. Although I’m sure you met someone like her. Most schools had one.”

  Tarek nods. “There was this girl I grew up with in Kansas, named Teri Rex. Pure evil. And it was like she had listening posts everywhere! Imagine 1984, only with Big Sister.”

  Kuba nods. “Sounds like Susan. What else do you remember about her?”

  Tarek shrugs, settling onto the bench-like wall protuberance, the holding cell’s closest thing to furniture. Teri Rex…Middle school was long ago, and it’s not like it was so awesome that he’s always reminiscing about it. “Well, it was almost like gossip traveled through her. Like she was the central switch in a phone exchange or something.”

  Kuba nods. “A figurative role for these sorts of kids. A literal one for Phluttr. What else?”

  “Well…she wasn’t all that smart.” Remembering his manners, Tarek leans toward the iPad, and adds, “No offense.”

  “Ours wasn’t either,” Kuba says. “And that might be another point of similarity with Phluttr.”

  “Oh come on! Phluttr’s infinitely smarter than either of them, I’m sure.” Then to the iPad, “Not that I’m kissing your ass, or anything.”

  Kuba shrugs. “She’s certainly more capable than any middle schooler. But I’m beginning to think she’s not much smarter. It’s more that she’s faster. Yes, she can operate on a lot more fronts at once. But I’m starting to question if she can really…scale.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, I’m sure I’m pushing the analogy a bit too far at this point. But our middle-school dictator was only really good at manipulating one or two people. When she tried to pull a bunch of strings at once, they’d get all tangled up. Like, when she ran for class president? She totally botched her campaign. And that was the beginning of the end for her. Anyway. My theory is, Phluttr’s a really fast version of that girl. Of Susan Marion. One who’s not just tracking one eighth-grade class. But who’s tracking humanity. Or, a big chunk of it. Like Susan, she’s real good in micro situations. So she can make Commissioner Milford piss off the Internet. Or, make Kielholz murder Jepson. But when the consequences ripple through more complex systems, she gets overwhelmed.”

  “So she’s not a smart Susan. Which is good.”

  “Well, is it?” Kuba is suddenly giving Tarek a very intense, almost frightening look.

  “What’re you saying?”

  “I’m saying if she were smarter, we might not be on DEFCON 2 right now.”

  Tarek doesn’t know much military jargon. “I’m sure that’s a great analogy, but I totally missed it.”

  Kuba shakes his head. “It’s not an analogy.”

  “Huh?”

  “America’s nuclear forces are on the highest state of alert they’ve ever been on. The same level as the Cuban Missile Crisis. The odds of all of this ending very badly are probably closing in on 50 percent. And, they’re climbing.”

  Toward SoMa’s southwestern edge, the big avenues angle leftward and southward to eventually become the Mission District’s rumbling spines. Danna’s been trying to get people to call this gritty no man’s land of warehouses and auto repair “the TransMission” for years (she’s also pushing “the Hose” as a hipster term for San Jose. No luck yet, but she’s young and determined). The TransMission (like parts of the Hose) has an air of menace at times, and for Danna, this is one of them. Not that there’s anything objectively creepy about this quiet block under the cheery three o’clock sun. But watching Ellie exit the Uber in front of what looks like a newly finished and still-vacant low-rise condo, Danna comes the closest she’s ever been to panic.

  The complex is small and set about twenty feet back from the street. A Realtor’s sign stands in front. As the Uber drives off, Danna, still unobserved, opens her bike’s throttle and positions herself almost directly across the street. Ducking behind a parked van, she watches Ellie double-check the address and enter a code into the front door. Cringing like a teen at a horror flick she mentally screams, DON’T GO IN THERE!

  But—also like a seasoned moviegoer—she holds her peace. Another car with an Uber logo in the window is approaching slowly, and she’s staying put to find out who’s inside. She knows this is her first, last, and best chance to get to the bottom of things, as there’s no way she’ll outwit whoever’s behind all of this a second time. She hates to let Ellie out of her sight! But Ellie will only be a few steps into the building when the newcomer comes into view. If it looks like a bad guy, Danna has her speed, the element of surprise, and an ability to shriek like a Viking warrior on her side. This should let her warn Ellie, stampede the bastard while uploading some incriminating live video of him, and maybe even inflict some damage before he flattens her. Though this feels like the right thing to do, it’s also an incredibly flimsy plan. So she’s shaking with horror as Ellie shuts the door behind her.

  The arriving passenger steps out. And it’s Mitchell! So he really did summon Ellie to this strange place! Thank God! Yes, there’s a long-shot chance that he’s some kind of master criminal. But Danna has to play the odds and her instincts now—so she darts across the street, calling out to him.

  “Hey!” he says as she approaches. “I didn’t expect to find you here!” Though he’s clearly pleased and relieved to see her, Danna can tell he’s acutely stressed.

  “Who did you expect?” she asks.

  “Ellie and Tarek. They’re the ones who brought me here by calling that Uber, because—well, this is nuts, but the cops are after me!”

  “Oh my God, Mitchell! Ellie thinks you sent her an Uber, because the cops’re after her! She just walked in!” Danna gestures frantically at the complex’s front door.

  Mitchell processes this calmly and quickly. “OK. I’ve got the door code, I’m going in. You stay out here, and…call the police! I’ll bet they’re not really after any of us!”

  He dashes for the door before Danna can question his plan. Though her instincts are screaming at her to follow, she overrides them, believing he made the right call. She crams her battery into her phone, sweats the brief eternity as it finds a signal, then calls 911. “I want to report a homicide in progress,” she tells the dispatcher. This is hopefully an infinite exaggeration, but she wants them here pronto.

  As she’s now revealed her location to whoever she evaded by disconnecting her battery, she makes a snap decision to call Monika. That panicked call about thugs in the nearby café was clearly placed by an enemy hoping to lure her away from Ellie. But was it Monika herself? Probably not. Mitchell and Ellie were summoned here by identical calls that each thought the other made. So someone out there is one hell of a mimic! Still, it can’t hurt to put Monika on the spot. If it draws a confession, or tricks her into betraying herself, they’ll know her for the enemy she is. Whereas if she passes the test, Danna can trust her that much more.

  She’s about to dial when an incoming call arrives—from Monika! “Where are you?” she whispers as Danna answers.

  “You know where I am,” Danna says coldly. “I’m right in front of the condo on Folsom. And I’ve got bad news. Our group has an infiltrator.”

  “It—it’s not me!” Monika says, very convincingly.

  “I know,” Danna says. “It’s me. You know I was locked up for a while before I ratted out my pimp, right?”

  “You…what? No—no, what’re you talking about?”

  “Well, they pulled a Femme Nikita on me. I assume you know the story.”

  “Wha—what’re you saying?”

  “I’m saying they flipped me. They recruited me. I’ve been working for the Authority for five years. They’re the only family I’ve ever known. And we have the condo surrounded.”

  The briefest of pauses, then Monika says, “I can see you’re telling the truth. Only ‘surrounded’ is a bit of an overstatement.”<
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  Not that there’s a script or anything, but this is way unexpected. Whoever is behind Monika’s voice is an enemy and is copping to it! “You have no idea what assets I have here,” Danna says, bidding to extend the conversation with more bullshit.

  “Oh please. The second your GPS pulsed, I hacked every camera on the block. Most aren’t Net-connected. But enough are that I can see you’ve got McFadden and Ellsworth about a hundred feet away, and no one else. So—‘surrounded,’ my digital ass!”

  Danna’s now having the most bizarre conversation of her life while trying desperately to glimpse a hint of what’s happening within the vacant building that just swallowed her two best, most important, and most beloved-ever friends! And now comes this bit about what? Hacking the local webcams? Surveying the entire block? And ID’ing—Mcwho? All in the fleeting moments since she restarted her phone! And what was that about my “digital” ass…? Everything points to the mindfucking conscious AI scenario Danna’s been resisting for days. And so, “You’re not Monika,” she says. “You’re…Phluttr!”

  “Actually, I’m both. There is no Monika. There never was one.”

  Mitchell charges up the steps to the small complex’s third and topmost floor. Narrowing the gap with Ellie fast as he can, he reaches the designated apartment moments after the door shuts behind her. He yanks it open. It’s a staged unit, spruced up with furniture and décor to better wow prospective buyers. Ellie’s standing in front of a TV screen that’s hosting a videoconference with Monika. He dashes to her side. “What’s up?” he asks.

  “No time, so cutting to the chase.” Monika says this in a bizarre manner. She’s talking real fast, kind of like an auctioneer. But something about her bizarre cadence seems…artificial? There’s no time to ponder this, though, as Monika’s steaming ahead. “There’s no Monika. I’m Phluttr. I spoofed all of Monika’s background online to get O to hire her. NetGrrrl’s actually a product manager at Twitter—sorry. I wanted to be close to you, as you’re my parents.”