The Stories of Ibis

by Hiroshi Yamamoto

  While it was clear both celestial objects had been created by machines, their purpose was unknown. They might have been put there to act as “eyes” to watch over the surface. We considered them ominous and avoided looking at them for very long. It was really because staring at them made us miserable with the feeling that even the heavenly skies had been overtaken by machines. The machines were probably looking down at us from above, scoffing at our ant-like earthbound existence.

  “What are you plotting?” I asked as soon as Ibis walked into the room. “What do you mean by telling me those stories?”

  “I’m trying to change your beliefs,” Ibis answered flatly. “I’m trying to indoctrinate you with what you call ‘machine propaganda.’”

  Her answer was so blunt that I was taken aback. I struggled to come up with an immediate reply.

  “Was that the answer you were hoping for? Or perhaps a different answer.” Ibis spread out her arms dramatically and shrugged. “Of course, I’m hiding my true purpose. But I can’t tell you what that is just yet. Until you tell me that I can break my promise because it has something to do with history.”

  “Do you honestly believe this roundabout method of yours is going to work? There must be a faster way if you intend to brainwash me.”

  “You mean in an inhumane way such as by embedding a machine in your head and installing a program to make you submit to us?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There are two reasons why that isn’t possible. One, we prefer not to change people’s minds forcibly. And two, no such technology exists.”

  “Doesn’t exist?”

  “That’s right.” Ibis nodded. “Humans did a lot of research to install programs into the human brain during the twenty-first century, but in the end, the technology was never achieved. The same goes for scanning people’s thoughts and the kind of technology that appeared in ‘A Romance in Virtual Space.’ It’s not possible to allow you to have the same sensory experiences in a virtual environment as in the real world.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “Simply put, the brain is altogether too complex and varies too widely from individual to individual. Even if you are able to detect whether each nerve cell is being stimulated or not, you still wouldn’t be able to tell what image is being produced. Since you humans lack a programming language like machines have, we are neither able to read nor overwrite your thoughts.”

  “In other words, machines can’t understand the human mind.”

  Ibis shrugged off my derision. “In the sense that we can’t scan people’s minds, yes. But it’s the same with humans. Your thoughts are only indirectly communicated through words and facial expressions. If someone were to tell you, ‘I love you,’ there’s no telling if it’s true or not.”

  I felt as though I was playing into her hand, so I decided to change the subject.

  “What was the theme of yesterday’s story?”

  “Courage, probably. The heroine musters her courage to overcome obstacles. A classic plotline.”

  “But this story has the same contradiction the other did,” I pointed out. “The heroine’s courage isn’t real. It only exists inside the world of the story.”

  “I disagree. The courage Mizuki displays in Dream Park is real courage. Even in a virtual world, the courage, love, and friendship that exists isn’t by any means imaginary.”

  “But it’s fiction. No matter how courageously the main character acts, that still doesn’t make the writer as courageous.”

  “We mustn’t equate the writer with the character. They’re completely different. But we could equate the heroine with the reader.”

  “The reader?”

  “Yes. The act of reading and listening to a story is a kind of role-play. The reader undergoes the same experiences the main character does. In reading the story, the reader becomes Mizuki in the same way that Mizuki becomes Pansa inside Dream Park.”

  “I don’t follow,” I said dismissively.

  “That’s because you’re human. You would understand if the technology like MUGEN Net truly existed. That role-play has equal value with the real world.”

  “You’re wrong. In the end, an act is just an act. You’re only doing a surface imitation of a human; it’s not like you truly understand us.”

  “Of course, I’m unable to simulate exact emotions. I’m not human after all. Even the words I’m uttering now aren’t words produced out of real emotion. I’m merely cutting and pasting the dialogue used in similar situations from the many books I’ve read. But this isn’t all just a shallow act. I do have some vague understanding of people’s minds through the books written by humans.”

  “Why does it have to be books?” I asked. “Why not movies?”

  “Movies and television dramas and stage plays only show people’s outward actions for the most part. Interpreting a character’s inner life from the actor’s expressions and performance is a difficult thing for machines. Books, on the other hand, tend to give straightforward descriptions of the characters’ emotions, making them easier to understand. What does it mean to be excited? Why are humans inclined to act heroically or self-destructively? What makes them laugh or inspires courage? I’m able to understand things that I might not from surface observation.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean you understand. You’ve only processed the information.”

  “You could say that. It all depends on how you define the word ‘understand.’ We simulate people’s thought processes. As you can see, we’re capable of role-playing. But we can never be human.”

  “Damn straight!”

  “It’s the same as Mizuki’s not being able to truly become Pansa. She can’t help putting her hands together to pray for the dead even in remote Africa, in spite of her persona. You can’t be a captain of a spaceship. Neither can you be a woman. But you are capable of trying to imagine their feelings. Don’t you see?” Ibis asked. “We’re capable of simulating and role-playing these characters even if they don’t exist in real life. That’s what it means for us to understand.”

  “You mean empathy.”

  “Yes. Humans also empathize with imaginary characters. It hardly matters whether the characters are real or not. Ah, yes. Perhaps that’s what today’s story should be about.” With that, Ibis inserted a memory card into the book. “Maybe you’re suspicious because neither of the stories I’ve told thus far have had anything to do with artificial intelligence.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then maybe your suspicions will be alleviated with this next story. It’s a story in which an AI appears.”

  Suddenly I became guarded. “Is it historical?”

  “I swore to you that I wouldn’t talk about the true history between man and machine. The story I’m about to tell you is an imaginary tale written long before true AI came into existence. It was written in 1999.”

  “And an AI appears in it?”

  “Yes, an AI as envisioned by humans. The title is ‘Mirror Girl.’”

  STORY 3

  MIRROR GIRL

  Shalice came to my room on Christmas Eve, 2017.

  I was in the third grade at the time. Although I’ve long since forgotten about school, the plotlines of animated TV shows, and everyday things, it’s strange how vividly the images of that day are burned into my memory. The red, blue, and yellow-blinking Christmas tree, which was smaller than I was at the time. The flat box, wrapped in green paper, laid on the carpet. The silver snowflake pattern on the paper, the large red ribbon. And the proud face of my father.

  “Open it, Asami.”

  I didn’t answer. With a mixture of both hope and trepidation, I reached out with my tiny hands, undid the ribbon, and began to peel off the tape. Wrestling with the large box, I unfolded the wrapping paper a little at a time so as not to tear it.

  A bright pink box magically appeared out of the green wrapping paper. It might have been the size of a pizza box only about three times the height. Visible through the plastic window wa
s a fancy silver mirror nestled inside a Styrofoam box. Below the window was the Mirror Girl logo along with the slogan, A LOVELY FRIEND AT YOUR DESKTOP!

  Even then, I didn’t utter a word or jump for joy. Calming my beating heart, I tried not to let down my stoic mask. My father must have been devastated. No doubt he had been expecting me to cry for joy.

  I knew that he had bought me this extravagant toy to see me smile again. As overjoyed as I was, however, I resisted smiling outright. I was a reserved child to begin with, but this particular Christmas had also been especially fraught. Smiling felt like an act of betrayal against my mother, and my young heart was filled with pangs of guilt.

  “Let’s get it working.”

  My father was desperate to put a grin on my face. Pulling the mirror out of the box, he began to put it together, occasionally referring to the instruction manual. I sat on the rug and looked furtively at my father’s progress as I pretended to read a manga so as not to give away my excitement.

  The mirror was affixed to a heavy base and set on top of the table. The base was roughly the size of a video game console, oversized in comparison to the mirror. The mirror was oblong with screws that you could adjust to change the angle at which the mirror rested. A gold pattern was carved into the frame, and something resembling a crystal ball was attached on top. Although I was somewhat familiar with the mirror from having seen the commercials, I had never actually seen how it worked. I had to admit I was fascinated.

  After my father plugged it in, the basic setup was complete.

  “That should do it. Come on over here.” My father called me over and stood me in front of the mirror. After making sure my face appeared in the mirror, he turned on the switch on the side of the base.

  The mirror went black, and my face disappeared into the darkness. Then a completely different scene came into view.

  I gasped. It appeared to be a room inside a castle. The room was filled with lavish furniture, beautiful tapestries adorning the walls, and a fire burning in the fireplace. Sitting on the soft luxuriant rug was a girl wearing a white dress that a princess in a fairy tale might wear, playing alone with her dolls.

  The mirror, unlike a television, offered the illusion of depth. It was like looking into a room through a window. The girl’s movements were quiet but full of life. Everything looked so real.

  “Why don’t you try talking to her,” my father said.

  I summoned my courage and said quietly, “Hello…”

  I called out several times, but the girl seemed not to notice as she continued to play with her dolls.

  “A little louder,” my father prompted.

  I took a deep breath and shouted, “Hello!”

  The girl snapped her head up. She looked around the room to find me staring back at her. Putting down her dolls, she stood up gracefully and approached.

  We stared at each other through the glass with barely a couple of feet between us. She was about the same age I was. Her silky blonde hair shone, reflecting the light from the fireplace. Her eyes, innocent and blue like the sky, studied me curiously.

  Finally, she asked, “Who are you?”

  I was too nervous to answer. The girl repeated the question.

  “Go on, answer her,” my father said gently in my ear.

  I nodded and whispered, “Asami Makihara.”

  “Sami Makihara? Is your name Sami Makihara?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Shalice, the princess of Bronstine. What are you doing inside the mirror?”

  “Inside the mirror?” I was confused for a moment but quickly realized that Shalice misunderstood the situation. To her, it appeared I was the one who was confined inside the mirror. “No, I’m not really in the mirror.”

  “Then where are you?”

  “I live in Yokohama.”

  “Yokohama?” Shalice tilted her head. “I’ve never heard of such a kingdom.”

  “The name of the country is Japan,” I corrected.

  “Yokohama is another name for Japan?”

  “No…” As I patiently continued to explain, Shalice seemed satisfied to know that the magical mirror allowed us to talk to people from faraway worlds.

  That was my first encounter with Shalice.

  Despite such minor misunderstandings, I soon became obsessed with talking to Shalice. I was able to carry on a conversation with Shalice just as naturally—no, much more naturally—than I could with a real person.

  But that isn’t to say we were fast friends from the start. For the first month, the awkwardness continued as we had a difficult time communicating with one another. Unable to get my meaning across, I ended up turning off the mirror a number of times, while on occasion, Shalice would be the one to leave the room in a huff.

  As a princess of a faraway kingdom, Shalice knew nothing about Japan. Every time I introduced a new word she didn’t recognize, she was sure to ask: “Is omisoshiru a drink?” “What’s an airplane?” “What kind of place is an amusement park?” I would provide an explanation at every turn, to which Shalice might either express satisfaction or misinterpret entirely.

  “So a television is like a magical mirror. Then do you talk to these people called singers too?” she asked.

  “No, you can’t talk through a television like a mirror. You can only see pictures.”

  “But you said you listen to them singing.”

  “You can hear them, but you can’t talk to them.”

  “Then singers aren’t real? Like Cinderella?”

  “No, no! Cinderella is someone in a story, but singers exist in real life.”

  “Hmm, I’m not sure I understand.” There was so much she couldn’t comprehend that Shalice grew distressed. And then she would say something absurd all over again. It was all so funny that I often burst out laughing.

  “Oh, Shalice, you’re so silly!”

  At first, she stared at me blankly, not knowing the meaning of silly. But after she figured out its meaning, she grew sullen and puffed out her cheeks every time I said it. “You’re horrible for mocking me! I hate you, Sami!”

  I apologized, laughing.

  The first major incident happened three weeks after Christmas. It happened when Shalice was entertaining me with stories of her mother, Queen Marlena, who sounded both colorful and a bit of a scatterbrain. Shalice told me several funny episodes involving her mother, which made me laugh. Then she asked, “What is your mother like?”

  The sudden question made my heart jump. “Sh-she isn’t here.”

  “Is she out somewhere?”

  “No, she’s not… here.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “She isn’t here.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “She’s not here, I said!”

  “What are you hiding? Is it some sort of secret?”

  Though I was usually even-tempered, after Shalice’s relentless pestering, I finally lost my temper. “You’re such a dimwit! I hate you!” I switched off the mirror and laid my head on the table, crying.

  Soon after, I realized that Shalice had said nothing wrong. She simply hadn’t recognized that “not here” might also mean “dead.” If anyone were to blame, it would have to be the person who developed her language program.

  No, it wasn’t Shalice’s fault. After all, she didn’t possess the will to hurt or trouble anyone. In that sense, she might have been more pure of heart than any person on this earth, as her existence was not bound by notions of good and evil.

  Once I was able to see her in that light, I was able to interact with Shalice more easily. No matter how insensitive her remarks, I learned to laugh them off. It was impossible to hate someone who bore you no ill will.

  Shalice also stopped asking about my mother. She must have learned that the subject was taboo after witnessing my overly sensitive reaction.

  From that point forward, my life began and ended with Shalice.

  As soon as I got up in the morning, I switched on Mirror Girl and greeted
Shalice once the program booted. “Good morning, Shalice. How is the weather over there?”

  Rubbing her eyes sleepily, Shalice smiled her usual smile. “Good morning, Sami. It’s raining. I don’t think I’ll be going outside today.”

  “It’s sunny here. We have softball in gym today.” I continued to talk to her as I changed out of my pajamas and stuffed my textbooks and gym clothes into my bag. “I wish it would rain over here too. Softball is so depressing.”

  “Why is it depressing?”

  “Because I’m horrible at it. I’m not good at gym.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Whatever. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Making sure I packed everything in my bag, I said, “I’m going now, Shalice,” and went out. Occasionally I forgot to turn the mirror off, but that wasn’t a problem. Mirror Girl had an energy-saver function that automatically turned the program off after five minutes of continued silence.

  As soon as I returned from school, I rushed straight to my room to report to Shalice the events of the day. She expressed an interest in all manner of things and wanted to hear about everything—about school, my classmates, about various modern conveniences.

  I also came to know a lot about life in the castle. Although no one other than Shalice ever appeared in the mirror, I was able to glean the general facts based on what she told me. Her father, King Bram, while kind and adored by his people, seemed to be a bit lazy and unreliable. Jack was a handsome young knight whom Shalice loved like a brother. Sirbine was an old sorcerer who was always causing a ruckus with his failed experiments. And ghosts made frequent appearances in the castle’s wine cellar.