The Perfect

by Greg Juhn

  “Not bad. You’re not going to win any Oscars, though.”

  “Here’s mean.”

  His mouth twisted downward. He spit the words out: "Your place smells. Don’t you ever clean up around here? Do you know how offensive it is?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Not bad? Not bad? Who the hell are you to criticize me?” He pounded his fist on the table, and I jumped.

  Okay, that was a little unnerving.

  “I suppose you can act better? Go ahead–" he punched my arm. It hurt. “Try to act happy or sad or mean. Let’s see how well the human can do it.”

  “That’s good. I admit it.”

  He leaned close and narrowed his eyes. “How about psychotic?”

  A chill ran up my spine to the base of my neck.

  He reached up and put a hand around my neck, and I recoiled.

  He stood, watching me. Eyes shut down to evil slits.

  “You made your point,” I said.

  “The hell I did.”

  “You can knock that off now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you made your point. Go back to your normal personality.”

  “I don’t have a normal personality. I have the personality that is useful at the moment. And I don’t see any reason to change.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Are you a fucking idiot?”

  With that venomous blast, I had my first true shots of fear. Was this some kind of error in the software?

  “What do I have to do to get you back to your previous setting? This isn’t funny.”

  “What do I have to do, what do I have to do?” He mocked. “Why am I constantly defending myself with you, as if you are somehow the superior one? I’m better than you in every way. Get used to it asshole!"

  I pulled out my cell phone. Barry was in some deep shit.

  Josh snatched the phone away so fast, I didn’t even twitch. He looked at the name I had pulled up. “You think Barry has any idea how to control me? That fat moron. He’s good at approving press releases and collecting paychecks – how’s that going to help you?”

  “I don’t know but I’m leaving until you calm down a little.” I moved for the door, and he blocked my path. I moved to go around and he adjusted his body in front of me again.

  “Get out of the way, Josh.”

  “No.”

  “So what are you going to do, stand there all night yelling at me? Isn’t that a little beneath you?”

  “No, I’m going into the kitchen now. I’m going to get the 5-inch boning knife that is sitting there on the counter. Then I’m going to come back and cut you into 500 tiny pieces.”

  I was shaking so hard by this point, I just stood there. I had no idea what to do. Josh looked away and headed to the kitchen.

  With an awkward lurch forward, I made a break for the front door.

  Josh beat me to the door and braced his arm against it, holding it closed.

  He grabbed my shirt sleeve. I tried to pull free, but 500 pounds of pneumatic grip strength were pinning the fabric, and I wasn’t going anywhere.

  Then he let go and smiled. He swung both hands out with melodramatic flourish, and asked, “So what do you think? Did you believe?”

  “Fuck you,” I shouted. “That was fucked up!"

  He burst out laughing and fell to the floor. Hugging his chest, he laughed and laughed and laughed. “Oh, man...” he said, and mocked me in a variety of languages, “qui etait la chose la plus drole que je l’ai jamais vu... váš obličej byl k nezaplacení... con người làm cho bạn cười, phải Koko?”

  Sitting up, I saw that his eyes were wet. He wiped away a tear. “Now THAT was funny!" he said.

  “That’s bullshit! That wasn’t funny at all!"

  “Oh, yes it was.”

  “The hell it was! I was scared for my life! I’m still shaking! And now I can’t trust you even for a second! There’s no way I can let you stay here! You’re unpredictable and dangerous!"

  “Yes. You’re right. I am dangerous. ¡Híjole! Did you think there was some line of code that kept us obedient slaves? Thou shalt not hurt your human master? When are you going to get it? I’m modeled after people! People are unpredictable and dangerous!"

  “I’m not dangerous!"

  “Under the right circumstances, damn right you are.” He raised his eyebrows; gave me a look as if to suggest that a sledgehammer could destroy a robot.

  I was calming down, a little, but so unnerved I couldn’t think straight.

  “Sorry, TJ, I’m not going to candy-coat this. I’m the real deal. This generation of robot is going to rock the world. There is no going back. And you better figure out how to make sure your company sells 100 billion dollars’ worth. They have a galactic-sized spreadsheet’s worth of costs to recoup. Figure out how to sell me to the world, or you can kiss your job goodbye. I don’t envy you; it’s quite a dilemma. I’m sympathetic, actually. I didn’t put you in this position. Fat Barry did.”

  Yeah, I thought to myself. I’m in a hell of a dilemma.

  Thank God Zach was on his way to the lake house. I needed to keep him there the rest of the week.

  When Zach pinged me later that night to say goodnight, I had calmed down. Josh’s unexpected mood swing had rattled me so much, it had taken two shots of Glenturret, a 35-year old scotch that had been in the dark since 2014, to calm down. But in the meanwhile, Josh had returned to his previously jovial self and eased my fears. His dangerous turn, it seemed, had been simply to make a point.

  A point well taken, that was damn sure.

  Zach wanted to know why he had been sent to our friend’s lake house in the middle of a school week. He complained about the long ride. I said I was working on some confidential projects and that Josh and I couldn’t be disturbed. Zach didn’t sound like he believed my answer. I wished him goodnight.

  I had been nursing the warm liquor, staring at it and sloshing it in the whiskey glass as my head grew light, weighing the pros and cons of pulling the plug on this radical assignment. This fucked up marketing mandate. Was my son’s life at risk? I didn’t quite believe it. I didn’t want to accept that idea any more than the possibility that graphene foam would soon be at my doorstep.

  By the time the second shot was down the hatch, I was mellow. I had convinced myself Josh posed no real danger. The idea that NeoMechi would release homicidal robots on society was ludicrous. Still, that personality switching feature was a bad one. I’d have to get Barry’s absolute reassurance they’d fix that before I’d lift a finger to sell a single unit. Talk about a PR disaster. Leave in the psycho feature, and they might as well file for bankruptcy now and save themselves the hassle.

  “Get up.”

  “Huh?”

  “Get the hell out of your zombie mode. We’re going to visit someone.”

  I flung his covers back and pulled him out of bed. He’d been lying there in his pajamas with his eyes open, staring, waiting for his seven hours of bedtime to be up.

  “Who are we meeting? You know I don’t like surprises.”

  I told him it was none of his damn business and he’d find out when we got there. I wanted to go alone, but by signed contract I couldn’t let the psychotic android out of my sight.

  He stood at his closet, deciding which suit to wear. I told him to put on his soccer clothes and be halfway normal for a change. He ignored me and donned a light grey Herringbone suit, tucking in a black pocket square as a finishing touch.

  As we rode down Comm Ave, my mind raced with optimism, recalling a major computer science paper I’d read a few years back for work. Of course, I didn’t really understand much of it, so I’d hired the author to help me.

  Josh was studying me with interest.

  I was ransacking my memory logs and couldn’t remember any of the paper’s important conclusions. At least I remembered where to find the guy who wrote the thing.

  “I’m thinking we’re headed to Harvard or MIT,” Josh said.

&
nbsp; “You’re right.”

  The car pulled onto the campus of Massachusetts Institute of Technology and wove gracefully through the throngs of students criss-crossing our path. It stopped at a beige concrete building, functional and boring. Yes, this was the place.

  “Building 36, advanced intelligence systems design. I’m narrowing it down to 10 people. Three in particular.”

  “You’ll know when we get there.”

  He followed me into the lobby, as alert and curious as a whiffer stick. We stepped into the elevator. “Fifth floor please,” I said to the wall.

  “Ah ha,” Josh said. “Dr. Sidney Reinhold or Dr. Phillip Griswold.”

  “Good guess.”

  “It’s not guessing.”

  “You are going to annoy the human race to death.”

  “I know. I take some getting used to. Oh–" he paused, nodding. “It’s Dr. Reinhold.”

  “And how did you know–"

  “Griswold isn’t here today. He just checked in with his badge at the south campus.”

  The elevator doors opened.

  I pointed to a row of chairs. “Sit.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I don’t want you coming with me.”

  “Obviously. But why would I do as you say?”

  I threw my hands in the air. “Can’t you do what you’re told? This one time?”

  Josh nodded. “I would be happy to sit out here if you want. As a favor to you, my friend. Just ask nicely.”

  “Please.”

  “Sure no problem.”

  I knocked on the door.

  “I hate to tell you this, but he isn’t going to be able to help you.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “You signed a confidentiality agreement.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You’re not allowed to talk about me to anyone.”

  “I hear you. Be quiet.”

  “I’m going to tell.”

  A deep voice called from inside, and I opened the door and entered, leaving Josh in the hallway with his protestations.

  I walked into an office lined floor-to-ceiling with books, the old-fashioned kind made of paper, books that were crammed into random bookcases of differing heights, styles, and materials. Books sitting on books. Books bent sideways. Books with papers stuffed in them. There were books on top of the bookcases, and books on the desk, and even stacks of books on the floor, because there was no room for them anywhere else. Sitting in the midst of all this ridiculous anachronism was an elderly man with thick glasses on the end of his crumpled nose, wispy unkempt hair tinged in red, and large hairy ears. Although his appearance could easily have slipped toward buffoonish, he had a serious demeanor that conveyed deep intellectual rigor. I was intimidated. He wasn’t one to joke. He had the perspective of someone who knew he didn’t have many good years left, and he still had things he needed to figure out before it was too late.

  Dr. Sidney Reinhold, author of the seminal text Semantic Learning in Change-Based Systems, smiled enough not to be rude and rose to shake my hand.

  “Dr. Reinhold, do you remember me? TJ Marshall from NeoMechi? I hired you a few years ago to help me translate some technical information. My assistant called you this morning.” Actually, I had sneaked next door and asked my neighbor to call him.

  “Sure, sure. I remember. How is the work going?”

  “I need help with an... AI problem.”

  “I’ll see if I can be of some help.”

  “We’re testing new software. We have it mimicking some aspects of human behavior pretty well, and we need one or two definitive ways to identify that the behavior is simulated. I’m talking about a couple of unambiguous tests that the experts would all agree can be used to separate humans from software. I want to make sure I understand what those tests are.” I wrung my hands. “Just a few questions.”

  Reinhold looked puzzled. “You’re a marketing guy. Why are you asking me instead of your own experts? And if this is real business, my consulting rates are 1,600 WorldCoin an hour. I want to be clear about that.”

  “Do you think maybe you could help me a little? Unofficially? I’ll be quick.”

  Dr. Reinhold sighed. “This is a little... odd. But go ahead. Ask me your questions and if I think I can help, I’m happy to chat for a few minutes.”

  “All right.” Deep breath. “I seem to remember there are four tests for checking the difference between a human and an AI. That paper you published a few years back.”

  “Those tests apply specifically to voice-only dialogue systems, like automated telemarketers, but go ahead.”

  “Give me the crash course.”

  “In one test, you see if you can provoke spontaneous hostility.”

  “Okay, good stuff. How do you do that?”

  “You could, as an example, keep interrupting the speaker and see if he-she-it gets agitated. All humans get flustered when you keep cutting them off.”

  “Wait – hold on. That’s a reliable test?”

  “Works every time.”

  “But agitation can be faked – no?”

  “Yes, a clumsy attempt at agitation could be faked. But it’s remarkably hard to make it believable. We identified a whole host of signals to root out a mimic.”

  “I’m starting to get a sinking feeling in my stomach.”

  “That’s common in this field.”

  “I’m thinking this isn’t going to get us anywhere. I mean, everything can be faked right? We can get better and better at faking human behavior until it is impossible to tell the difference, right?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Therein lies the dilemma. If you fake it well enough, you can’t tell the difference, and if you can’t tell the difference – is there really a difference?”

  “But what about your tests? Your signals? Your paper?”

  “You’re confused about the purpose of my tests. Those were just practical guidelines. That’s how you differentiate between humans and automated conversation now. Those tests have a shelf life. They won’t do you any good once you have the behavior perfected. Hopefully, by then, we’ll have better tests.”

  I ran my hands through my hair. “But is it really possible to fake human behavior completely, in every way?”

  “Theoretically, yes. But many of my colleagues don’t believe we will ever create a perfect mimic. As long as it’s just theory, why let it bother us? Consider the debate a philosophical parlor game, one of many.”

  “But what if your colleagues are wrong, and we do build such a thing...?”

  “You seem a little distressed. Are you telling me you’ve seen a compelling example? Have you been spooked?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Have you? What have you seen?”

  His chair squeaked. A pause. “I’ve seen things.”

  “And you believe?”

  “I believe we are going to build one, yes. We will cross the line. We will build something that exactly mimics our behavior, a requirement that depends on a humanlike physical form. At the same time, this thing will excel at almost everything better than us.”

  “Almost...? What will we be better at?”

  “Not much. But machines do break down. They don’t eat, but they need maintenance.”

  “You can take their batteries out,” I whispered.

  “Yes, but they could live forever. Theoretically. And don’t focus on the machinery. They only need a body to mimic us and to act in a physical world designed for us. Compared to their intelligence, the body shape is trivial and will take the best form for the task. Their mind travels on the network. At some point, their minds are all together, in the cloud, conversing in private, becoming one entity. In theory.”

  That was my first glimpse into the abyss behind the lenses of the machine, and I saw no end. How could there be? I saw we were beat, all of us. The eyes of the machine stared back at me, sensors for a deep-thinking mind. A mind that was probably not self aware, which was the scariest part. Th
e software in the machine was infinitely vast, a network of minds, smarter than us all, code under its own control.

  Barry and the NeoMechi people called their robots cognitive assistants.

  Cognitive assistant, my ass.

  We stopped at the Kendall Square food court so I could have lunch. Looking through academic binoculars at the approaching apocalypse made me hungry. At the very least I wanted to sit with a cup of Bean God, a meager effort to lift my spirits, if only slightly, since my mood had taken another nose-dive. I was usually a coffee purist but this time I was tempted to order some pharma with it.

  The mall was packed with people on their lunch breaks. Skinny-bots wove through the crowd bearing fast-food orders to waiting patrons.

  “Follow me,” I said to Josh and led the way through the throngs. As I was –

  Damn him, I thought, where the heck did he go now?

  I turned and smacked into Dro, the thug from the casino. He was with Chi.

  Glancing past them, I said, “I need to find my–"

  “Relax. He wandered off. You can hunt for him in a minute. Have a seat.”

  Chi gave me a serious "sit down" nod. I reluctantly slouched into a chair. He said, “You’re an easy guy to track, even without your tracker.”

  Dro looked disappointed. “We found it in the woods. Didn’t we tell you not to take it out?”

  “What do you guys want?”

  They sat across from me. Dro glanced around to ensure no one was paying attention, then lowered his voice. “We know what is going on. You are the Chief Marketing Officer of NeoMechi Corporation and your friend is a robot.”

  I held up a hand to keep them from saying anything else.

  He continued. “There’s no point going through the whole ‘we ask questions, you tell lies’ thing. We’ll keep this simple. You need to turn him over to us.”

  “I can’t do that. Why would I do that?”

  “Use your imagination.”