Conception: Book One of Human Dilemma

by Scott Sibary

  The letters gleamed, and AnDe began to chuckle.

  Liu stared at him.

  “I apologize,” AnDe said. “I thought it humorous that the abbreviation could be the same for the World Council.”

  The hand of the woman paused, and the squeaking of the cloth, still pressed against the letters, ceased.

  “Surveillance?” he asked his boss.

  Liu waived a dismissive hand in the direction of the janitor. “An old dilemma, control versus freedom. And here we engineers are trying to build an optimal middle path.”

  “Don’t security officials understand that too much control leads to a decrease in productivity?” AnDe asked.

  “Standardizes it, control does. Gets rid of rotten eggs but dims the stars. There are five stars in the Chinese flag, and we need all of them to shine together.”

  “Yes. And with challenges like our worsening climate, the whole world needs all of its stars to shine, General.”

  “General, yes.” Liu paused, as if reflecting. “Did you know I only reached major in the army engineers? They bumped me up in the Reserves. Because of loyalty, no doubt. Yet if they ever took me away from my position as director of the Division for Artificial Intelligence because they needed me full-time in the Reserves, it would already be too late. None of this would matter.” The slight gesture of his hands suggested he meant a world beyond the room in which they stood.

  “That’s why I believe this mission is so important,” AnDe said.

  “Youthful devotion,” Liu said. “That’s good. You will need it.”

  Chapter One

  What am I doing here?

  She stood in the middle of a hospital ward, its rows of beds extending into the distance like a battlefield cemetery. Moaning rose around her like a dirge. She looked at the faces on the beds. None was distinctly recognizable, and they changed even as she stared at them: familiarity slipping away before it could be grasped.

  A loaded gurney, sheet draped over the corpse, came straight at her. She took a step away, and it stopped beside her.

  A hand shot out from under the sheet, grabbing her wrist. Then, like so many before, the scene faded away as her eyes struggled to open.

  Solveig turned to the clock on the nightstand: half an hour before they should gather in the hotel lobby. She flew into the shower, the sweat on her forehead cooling her as she moved. Another nightmare to rinse away.

  Half an hour later, she had finished an order of oatmeal from room service and stood in the middle of her room, holding an empty celadon tumbler in her hand. Her phone on the bed flashed and rang. It recited a message that the liaison had arrived and that her team was assembled and ready. She sent no reply. Instead, she raised her empty teacup to her face, as if it still held something of import: something that might decode a maze. Her fingers cycled the vessel over her palm while she examined a style admired for centuries.

  This hard, transparent glaze exposes a world of underlying cracks, she thought. I wonder if I could decipher a pattern.

  She rotated the cup in the opposite direction, as if a hidden pattern might reveal a clue to an intricate and mysterious insight: a metaphor for history.

  She returned the cup to her breakfast tray and stepped over to the blackout curtains. Parting the heavy layers with her left hand, she faced the inclement weather, then stiffened from a renewed feeling of rebellion.

  It’s all you have, the protesting voice insisted. What if the merger doesn’t work? You’ll be nothing, Solveig Kleiveland! You’ll be meaningless: a career wasted. And if it works the wrong way . . . Oh my god. It would be better to abort, or else you’ll be far, far worse than nothing.

  Yet, the temptation! A chance to go beyond what they’re trying to do: how can you not?

  She shifted her weight back and forth between anxious feet as a different concern ambushed her from its perch in the back of her mind. She’d let the turbulent currents of world affairs free her from a relationship that had gone stale. Like parting company with a temporary travel companion while disembarking at a busy airport, she’d simply let go of something that no longer had meaning. Yet in China, she’d just be getting older.

  Forget that, Solveig. You’re not here for relationships.

  She remained at the window, hoping to determine which of her objections was the greater culprit, or the greater sage, behind her doubts. As she sought clues, the weather merely reflected the question back at her: grey drizzle obscuring the view, sunlight diffused by an overcast. Such a scene could inspire any number of conclusions, driven by one’s inclinations. She stood rigid like an unwilling bride about to be wed to a groom she had never met. Outside was the groom: the giant metropolis of Beijing, with its size hidden by the mist and its power only hinted at by the glistening expanse of tall buildings. She had to wonder whether such a world genuinely wanted anything a poor country-girl from a small nation had to offer. And if it did, would that make it any better?

  She knew this kind of cooperative project was the nature of her work. Her part would have no utility until integrated into the work of others—of strangers she would have to work with intimately. Strangers she was about to meet.

  She closed her eyes.

  “Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn’t,” her mother would mumble in a wispy breath. “You can’t rely on what you don’t know, but you can get a kick out of discovering!”

  All kinds of kicks.

  She passed her hand along the ribs under her left armpit: the kick in the side during her final rugby match, many years earlier, no longer painful.

  Her classmates in school and college and her colleagues at work seemed to have no difficulty appearing affable face-to-face. In some it was clearly a put-on; in many it seemed genuine. Perhaps, she thought, some of them had never been betrayed.

  The first betrayal, when she was in her first year of school, flashed into Solveig’s procrastinating mind. She had thought Helle in third year was being nice, introducing her friends. Solveig was as tall as them, as if she belonged. First there came the fake praise: Helle said Solveig was supposed to be very brainy, and so everyone should watch out. Then followed the ridicule: revealing that Solveig had never had a father, was poor, and her mum did grunt work because she was a sinner. Finally came the shove to get lost. Solveig struck back, but Helle was older and faster. She had allies. Afterwards Solveig couldn’t tell the full story and took all the blame.

  A cloud had darkened the window of the hotel room. Solveig opened her eyes to rid her mind of the useless story and saw the reflection of a face gone from diffident to blank: a familiar look. Years earlier, a friend suggested she could look “as poker-faced as a Chinese diplomat.” Recalling the remark, she gave a laugh at the irony. She released the curtains from her long, thin fingers; it was time to go.

  She held her head high while riding the escalator down to the bustling hotel lobby. An array of chandeliers came into view, to each attached seemingly countless cut-glass pendants: sharp, polished, and showing the world their brilliance.

  She remembered what Andersen had said about Deng AnDe’s team, and steeled her gaze at the crystals.

  The lobby décor was more Chinese than Western, reversing a design trend from the beginning of the century. The lobby echoed with the clatter of feet and the collective murmur of people coming and going. To one side sat a group of six men: her five Norwegian colleagues along with one Chinese man. Lars and Rolv she knew well; the other three she had just met in Oslo before their departure for China. The Norwegian men were visibly coordinated, each wearing a dark blazer, a light shirt with colorful tie, and dark slacks. Most were looking down, elbows on knees, not talking or looking around. She guessed they were embarrassed that their leader was not early, as the liaison from the Chinese Ministry of Technology had been. They were sitting under a chandelier, their downward-pointing faces looking dim in their own shadows, in contrast to the brightness above.

  Upon seeing Solveig, the six men stood up. They watched her approac
h and seemed to be examining her clothing. There was similarity enough. She wore a dark navy-blue jacket with matching knee-length skirt, a light-blue silk blouse, sheer stockings, and pointed dress shoes. From her ears hung a pair of fine cut imitation gemstones matching the pale blue of her eyes, and around her long neck hung a silver chain with a circular Celtic pendant of entwined serpents. She had thought better of braiding her hair and left it simply gathered at the back.

  They spent little time on greetings before the liaison escorted them to a waiting shuttle van. When they arrived at the basement of the old health department building, her team walked out of the elevator in wing formation. No gala reception awaited them, only a hallway dispenser of hot water for tea. As they approached the door to the new suite, she held her breath, stepped in front of the liaison, and strode in first. The liaison and Solveig’s team followed behind.

  The Chinese team was standing ready in a neat arc facing them. The eight men and four women wore similarly styled business suits. The one exception was their leader, Deng AnDe, who looked somewhat less dapper. His suit was of a simple and mass-produced cut and a little baggy on his tall frame; the contrast with his subordinates gave Solveig a sense of relief.

  He fashioned a broad smile that, judging by his warm eyes, she guessed could pass as genuine. She’d communicated with him before by text and voice messaging but never with any video attachments. Nor had she researched his personal background; she’d left that to the people working in security.

  His arm reached out while bent in a nonchalant fashion. His eyes beamed excitement and his gait seemed sprightly in the context of a somber setting.

  She caught herself shifting her weight to step back. She took one more step, planting her right foot solidly forward. She shook his hand and forced a smile.

  The liaison approached to perform the formal introduction but Solveig spoke first.

  “Dr. Solveig Kleiveland. Nice to meet you.”

  “Senior Project Manager Deng AnDe; in English, most people call me ‘Andy.’ I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

  First her grip relaxed, then her smile and her breathing. She took a step back.

  Deng AnDe turned to Rolv, the tallest of the Norwegians.

  “Senior Project Manager Deng AnDe. You must be Project Manager Rolv Drammen.”

  “Yes, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Likewise. You’re also the deputy leader?”

  “Correct. I help as I can.” Rolv proceeded to introduce his other colleagues.

  The Chinese leader moved back to the center of the gathering. “After we finish our introductions,” he said, “I’ll give a brief welcoming speech. We can remain standing. Then I’ll give you a quick tour of the facilities. At a later date we will go across town to tour the facilities where my other teams work. I apologize there is no welcome banquet. Not my decision. Maybe today’s open schedule will give our Norwegian colleagues more time to adjust and recover for work tomorrow.”

  And no mention of Q&A, thought Solveig.

  Titles and names, titles and names: she had briefly studied them all from the file on the mission. Now they formed an unsteady collage of images and words that only blurred more as they were added to, until at last the introductions were over.

  AnDe stood in front of the now-intermingled assembly to give his speech.

  “Let me say again, welcome. This is very exciting. I hope you feel the same.” His look became serious. “All of us, around the globe, have been through something terrible. It showed us that we cannot continue with a disorganized world. Our leaders have decided to create a World Council as a new forum for international diplomacy and to coordinate on world problems, and they decided it should be assisted by a highly rational voice, to be called the World Electronic Analyst. The name was a result of compromise.” He flashed a quick smile.

  “Our role over the next few months is to assemble that voice. We don’t know exactly how they’ll use it, but our artificial general intelligence will be the first in the world. The more the Council uses it, the more influential it will be. Maybe even . . . powerful. But if it’s powerful, it will also be dangerous, so how does humanity protect itself? What policies should form the fundamental values and imperatives of the artificial mind? As you know, experts from many disciplines have been working on this for decades. How should their answers be represented in the vital codes we are to install?” He shot questioning glances at attentive faces.

  No one spoke.

  “I think those are the most important policy questions in all of history,” he said. “Questions humanity must answer. Now we think we have good answers.” He faced the Norwegians.

  “Our colleagues from Norway bring us the codes. They also bring their latest invention, the Protection Lock, to make sure the finalized vital codes are unalterable. Together, these sets of algorithms will make the Electronic Analyst safe and reliable. Most days two Norwegians will be joining each of our three Chinese teams. They will work with us, sharing their products with us.”

  Not completely, thought Solveig.

  “This is why I’m excited, because I’m confident we will succeed. We will have an influential, beneficial, and rational voice that will help our world leaders solve today’s problems. There will be no more holocausts, and our future will be promising.” He made a final check of expressions. “I think you all agree. Maybe it helps to reaffirm this hope as we welcome our guests. They make this project possible.”

  Every Chinese face showed enthusiasm, though a few showed remnant traces of suffering. Solveig saw no enthusiasm on the faces of two of her Norwegian colleagues.

  Chapter Two

  It could have been any hour, her numb body told her. Solveig leaned away from the shuttle van window, craning her neck to read the dashboard clock, but her view was blocked by the pointing arm of the liaison sitting across from the driver. The van turned off the traffic-jammed street and headed down an alley.

  Shortcuts, she thought. They’re too good at that.

  The arm moved back, and she read 11:40. A deep voice caught her attention.

  “I’ve just spoken with my wife,” Rolv said as they approached the hotel. “We’ll take our children with us to lunch in about an hour. They’re napping now.”

  Beside him sat Reidar Hagerup. “That works for my wife and me, if you’d like the company.”

  “Yes, please join us.” He glanced around at his colleagues. “You are all welcome.”

  Per Nilsen, who worked on cybersecurity, faced Rolv with glazed eyes. “The jetlag is hitting me hard. I’m going to bed; I don’t care when I eat.”

  Solveig found herself admiring his movie-star face and trim body, then quickly averted her eyes. She saw Lars had caught her and was smiling. She looked at Stig.

  “Then three of us for lunch now?” she asked.

  The red-haired giant with a tenor voice, offered an eager grin. “You bet,” he said.

  The hostess in the hotel café led them to a table in the center of the room. Clinking and clanking and unfamiliar language rippled like a flooding stream around them. Solveig spotted a table in a quieter area near the far wall. She pointed at it. “What about that table? It’s not very private right here.”

  “Nowhere is,” Stig said, projecting his voice to the room.

  He and Lars sat down across from each other, leaving the chair between them for her.

  Solveig glanced at the patient, unmoving expression of the hostess, then pulled out her chair and sat down.

  The hostess pointed to a center console. “You can order from this screen or just use it to signal me.” She handed them westernized menus and left.

  Stig’s wide smile shone. He looked from Solveig to Lars. “You two have known each other for how many years?”

  “Seven,” Lars said.

  “I read your professional backgrounds, but you don’t post much on social media, do you, Solveig? And there aren’t exactly books written by you either, Lars, though I saw you li
ke dance. How did you get interested in computers?”

  “I did more social media years ago,” Lars said, “but the Facebook scandal provoked me. I kind of woke up to the addictive aspects. So I studied data protection, and how invasion of privacy can lead to manipulation. Eventually I migrated into safeguards.”

  “I get it, of course. Myself, it’s similar, wanting to mess with the systems I’m playing with. A true nerd at heart.”

  He looked at Solveig. “Could I ask you the same question?”

  She cleared her throat, then took a sip of water. “OK. You may already know that Lars and I met working on control protocols? I was a doctoral student and he an undergrad. Neither of us wants a powerful system unless it has proven safeguards built into it. And with humans able to guide and understand its actions.”

  “Of course. Who doesn’t want control?” Stig asked.

  “Full control isn’t our goal. You ought to understand that. We’re developing something with basic human values, so that it will come up with approaches that will satisfy us. Since it will tackle—maybe someday even comprehend—things we’re not smart enough to, any attempts at full control will only undermine its abilities.”

  “I’m on board.”

  “Many computer engineers put aside the concerns for safeguards.”

  “Pressure to get the product selling,” Stig said. “Get it up and running and ready for distribution.”

  “A different value judgment,” Lars said.

  Stig nodded.

  Their food arrived: a plate of curried vegetables for Solveig, fried shrimp and noodles for Stig, and a bowl of thick soup for Lars.

  They ate quietly for a minute before Stig asked, “Either of you have hobbies?”

  “Sure,” Lars said. “Dance, tennis, reading fiction. I could mention more.” He extended a palm towards Solveig.

  “It’s been a changing mix in my case.” She checked their expressions; they waited. “Since I was a kid, I’ve enjoyed puzzles and riddles. Also math. I even like learning languages. I always had tons of chores to do, including repairing things—a lot of things. I enjoyed it and it gave me confidence.” She hesitated. “We were poor; most of what we owned came from thrift stores. I didn’t mess with electronics until my teens.”