by Scott Sibary
“Very fine, thanks. I apologize again that there was no welcoming banquet. Maybe I personally could invite you to dinner on your first night here. Of course, we might meet on a routine basis, maybe once a week for lunch. But this first day, I would like to invite you, and any of your colleagues you want to have join us, to my favorite restaurant. Like an informal welcome dinner.”
She paused. “Oh, thank you, but tomorrow is a workday and—”
“We don’t have to make it a late evening.”
“What I mean . . . uhm . . . What is the longest flight you have ever taken?”
“Well,” came his hesitant reply, “San Francisco was probably the furthest non-stop, but another time I . . . I see. I’m sorry. I was forgetting about jet lag.”
“I’m sorry too, because it’s a very nice idea, and we can definitely try it another time. I just need to catch up on sleep.”
“Yes, good. Do that,” he said. “I hope you sleep well.”
“Thanks. Good night, then. See you tomorrow.”
“Yes, good night.”
She cringed as she hung up the phone.
She saw in the mirror across from the sitting area a woman putting down the phone and turning towards the tempting items on the table in front of her. She watched her arm stretching out for the stemmed goblet: still lovely, unscratched crystal. She could see through it clearly, the way certain people seemed to see through her. It held a seductively rich-looking chardonnay, purportedly from the Margaret River area of Western Australia.
The rim of the rising glass matched her curving lips. She inhaled over the surface, then sipped. Over the hill. It had lost what should have been a vibrant mix of mellow and sharp, and had begun to develop the oxidized flavor of a fortified wine.
She observed, as if from a meditating mind, and saw her long fingers return the goblet for a confirming taste. Forget it, she thought. But she gave over to her nature. She saw her torso rotating, her arm extending and reaching for the room phone, and heard her voice telling room service that the wine had been kept poorly or been open too long; they should check the bottle, and the charge should be removed from the bill, unless they wanted to adjust for the celadon cup she’d just broken. No, she didn’t want another glass of wine, not now; and yes, she knew about the minibar, thanks.
In bed she caught a glimpse of her reflection as she reached to switch off the lamp. Not over the hill, she told herself. Ahead of you lies a future to fulfill. If only that dream would fill your nights.
Chapter Six
Solveig stood by herself at the sealed window of the small banquet room, breathing tightly. Outside, a choking haze threatened to envelop them for months to come. The fourth-floor view presented little more than the walls of larger buildings across the street, yet the natural light offered welcome relief from the basement. Even the less-than-melodious street noise was a soothing reminder that they were not in the world of the dead.
“Stuffy in here,” Solveig said, turning to face her five team members already seated at the round table. “At least it’s better than the basement.”
Per and Stig grumbled unintelligible responses while Rolv and Reidar gave no sign that they had heard her comment. Lars shrugged without looking at her. Solveig returned to the round table, yanked back her chair, and sat with Rolv and Stig on her right, and Per and Reidar on her left.
A waitress pushed open the door, and the last platter of food, with its wafting confusion of aromas, floated in on pale arms to descend and join the circle of dishes in the middle of the table. Informed of their different diets, AnDe had ordered a wide variety of dishes. His three teams were eating each in separate banquet rooms. They were scheduled to do so on Wednesdays and to eat all together in a large banquet room on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Solveig had begun to focus her attention on AnDe’s behavior, silently dubbing him the “Orchestrator.”
At lunch on this first Wednesday, she suppressed an urge to criticize the basement worksite, and its sickening resemblance to the makeshift morgues everyone knew. Whether eight or eighty years later, no one needed reminding. In all probability, she thought, the basement had been used as a temporary morgue. She didn’t want to ask. They were there to combat the enemy—the real enemy—in one of the many battlefields where it had stolen another victory. This enemy was the psyche, mindset, emotion, or drive that had led humans to support group efforts to destroy others. Others who might seem hardly different in appearance, language, and culture. Others who could be much less different than her group was from their hosts.
They had plenty to grumble about. Communicating from their hotel was less secure than promised, making some of their work awkward. Their Chinese colleagues had very different preconceptions about work arrangements: how they would divide into groups, who would be assigned to each, and on what tasks. Discussion had degenerated into argument, even among the Norwegians. Solveig waited for a consensus, facilitated by Rolv, before presenting a cohesive plan to Deng AnDe.
She put a chopstick-catch of mushrooms and unfamiliar vegetables onto her bowl of rice. Beside her, Rolv placed several loads onto his little plate, with a sideways glance towards the door.
“I can’t get enough to eat if I take as little as they do,” he said.
“I lose my appetite with this food,” Per said.
“You’ll get used to it,” Reidar replied. “One’s tastes change. You may come to miss it when you get home.”
“Huh!” Per shook his head.
“I will,” Stig said. “Already do before lunchtime.” He chuckled, his large pale frame vibrating with laughter.
Having seen many like him fall to the plague, Solveig averted her eyes from his figure.
“It’s funny,” Stig said, “the kind of intelligence we’re creating won’t have any appreciation for food. Poor thing.” He beamed and shoved another chopstick-load into his mouth.
“It will not have desires of any kind,” Per said.
“Which is why it won’t have a true general intelligence,” Rolv added. “There are no feelings to bind the thoughts together into a sense of self.”
Solveig disagreed with many of Rolv’s perspectives on what kind of AI mind they could create. It was a subject that could highlight the professional differences between herself and her older deputy, and so she let it go. This gap between their perspectives was not just large; it was critically important to the outlook for artificial general intelligence and what it would portend in the decades to come.
Yet on this she suspected Rolv was correct. A powerful, ever-present feeling might be what the vital codes would need to function as within the artificial psyche. The fundamental imperatives contained in the vital codes might create a model for self-images, analogous to the way humans develop identities around their drives, feelings, and tastes. A person could be a connoisseur, an athlete, a parent, a warrior. But in humans these identities could be a catalyst for division and disregard for others, and that, she reaffirmed to herself, must not happen with AI.
Lars, Per, and Stig were looking at her, as if expecting her to respond to Rolv.
“Well, that debate won’t be answered anytime soon,” Reidar offered. “At our current rate of technological development, superintelligence is still a long ways off.”
All eyes now turned on him.
“You know what I mean. Hurdles pop up, and the rate of progress slows. Some blame the economic doldrums. I used to blame the sporadic shortages of key materials, but now I have another view.”
Reidar looked at his colleagues, as if gauging whether they wanted to hear more.
“I mean,” he said, “when large storms hit, we find ways to fund the repairs. It’s the peace among the technologically advanced nations that has made for less rapid innovation than . . . at other times.”
“What kind of fraud is that?” Stig bellowed, his voice like a roar of unanticipated thunder. He leaned forward, his face reddened to nearly match his hair. “That argument has been used to justify aggression,
and it’s not even correct. What do you want, another plague?”
“Wait a minute, Stig,” said Per. “You know that wars always inspire innovation and technological progress, for the sake of survival, if nothing else. More resources are put into R&D during wartime—a shifting of priorities.”
“Nonsense!” Stig slapped his palm on the table, making the china on it ring. “That’s nothing but an attempt to justify spending on aggression. The investment in R&D is small by comparison; it only looks large because it’s greater than in peacetime.”
Solveig froze, watching the crossfire. Across from her, Lars sat calmly.
“And that leads to the real point.” Stig pounded at the two across from him. “Defense, wars, and conflicts are used by some nations as excuses to spend into levels of debt that wouldn’t otherwise be politically acceptable. Then domestic budgets are continually cut to pay off war debts or to simply service them. Spending on wars pulls resources away from potential peaceful investments, including in R&D.”
“Well, I—” Solveig began, but was cut off.
“So,” Rolv said to Reidar, “couldn’t we have just as much innovation during peacetime?”
Reidar rocked his head slightly from side to side. “Except for the factor of urgency. People who are attacked and desperate can be phenomenally creative.”
Stig came at him again. “But which are the countries under attack? It’s not currently possible to have a war—other than a nuclear war, goodbye!—between nations with advanced technologies, especially as they develop more threatening autonomous weapons. So then, aren’t the targets usually the less powerful nations, the less wealthy ones, the ones with less technological infrastructure? They’re not likely to make breakthroughs.”
Reidar flushed.
The dispute reminded Solveig of a rugby match, with two struggling for control of the ball tossed into the scrum.
“Ideally, you’re right,” Per said, facing Rolv. “But the fact remains that priorities do change during times of conflict.”
Rolv furrowed his eyebrows at the two across from him. “Whose priorities? As our systems become more complex, don’t we see power gradually shift to more centralized decision-making? And in those central governments, don’t you find stronger voices for military-related R&D, and weaker voices for basic research and peaceful R&D—like the kind carried out at institutions and by individuals all over the country? Like by most of us?”
As if grazed by a glancing blow, Solveig felt roused by the mention of centralized control. She’d watched the loss of local schools and the loss of citizen participation in local government all happen in the name of centralization and its short-term savings. And now the proposed World Council with its World Electronic Analyst offered the specter of worldwide, centralized direction, maybe control.
Lars exchanged a glance with her. His gaze had darted around the table at each thrust and parry. Perhaps he saw the same danger as she.
“Would it not be better,” Rolv asked Reidar, “to put more of our investment into peaceful R&D?”
“I’ll admit the spin-off effect works the other way as well—from peaceful to military applications,” Reidar said, his tone suggesting a truce.
“Well, uh,” Per said, “it doesn’t segregate out so easily. Research in any field, including ours, might yield strategically important results for defense. Even our small country needs to fund some military R&D. It’s not as if no other nations are developing weapons. Right? We need to stay prepared.”
Solveig closed her eyes, wishing to hear an ending whistle for this game. Instead she imagined Rolv demanding to know what would come from Per’s strategy. She opened her eyes to chase away forecast with reality.
Stig filled his lungs with air and began to raise his right arm, but Rolv gently pulled his arm down.
“And,” Rolv asked, looking hard at Per, “what does that lead to?”
It’s leading to division in our team, Solveig thought.
“Speaking of leading to,” Lars said, “is there any more news about whether we’ll get out of the hotel and into our secure apartments this weekend?”
The four disputants leaned back against their chairs.
“No,” answered Reidar, “so I assume we’re on schedule. But I could ask the liaison again.”
“Please do,” said Per. “We don’t need any last-minute surprises.”
“And then we can prepare our own food,” added Rolv, slowly rotating the lazy Susan.
You mean your wife could, thought Solveig. “Reidar,” she said, “let me know what you hear. If it sounds like there are issues, I’ll bring it up with Deng AnDe to see what he can do from his end. I’ll be having Friday lunches alone with him to discuss business. His idea.” Or so he says, she added silently.
“Careful!” said Stig. “I heard Andy is quite a Casanova. Many conquests, regardless of his looks.”
“I don’t think those are appropriate comments about a colleague, Stig,” Reidar said with a hint of disgust. “And Solveig has plenty to deal with as it is.”
“Never mind, our Ice Queen would prove immune to such overtures,” Rolv said.
Ice Queen: a title she’d been given years before. She’d liked it. She took it as a compliment, to be a queen. And ice or snow, fine; she preferred a white winter. But the title, by its nature, had grown cold, and she’d come to recognize the gender bias implicit in the term. Yet there appeared no sign in Rolv or Stig of an intended slur. Again Lars was staring at her as if reading her reactions.
“No,” Per said, and raised his teacup as if to make a toast, “not an Ice Queen. A brilliant professional whom we are fortunate to have as our leader.”
At the end of his lunch hour, Deng AnDe received a text from his boss. It was marked confidential, and he walked out to the main hallway to read it.
Hello AnDe. I suspect that affairs in the Ministry could be more complicated than I had thought. I’d like to know what complications you foresee on the way to a successful integration of the Norwegian software. And I’m particularly interested in learning what progress you will make regarding the Protection Lock; how much useful information might you learn about it? Do some discovery and analysis. If I learn something clarifying from those above me, I will let you know how it might impact you. In the meantime, give me updates as usual.
Division Director Liu.
AnDe stood another minute in the empty hallway, barely hearing through the heavy metal doors the faint sound of colleagues moving and talking. The more powerful rumbling from the street level above, only slightly dampened by the protective walls of the building, was clear enough.
He pondered what Liu’s directive would mean for him. The thought of covert investigation put a bad taste in his mouth, like medicine, like poison. That’s the cost of obedience, he thought. But when obedience conflicts with other values, which is the path of greater loyalty?
Chapter Seven
Friday lunch found the two leaders in a different private banquet room. They sat at a round table that could seat eight, with one empty seat between them.
“May I suggest our focus today?” AnDe said. “To clarify the roles we each play in furthering the goals of this project. That may help prevent misunderstandings.”
“Yeah, it might.”
“I could go first, if you like.”
Solveig nodded, and the discussion turned into a briefing on their team members: their skills, work habits, and behavioral idiosyncrasies. He finished by explaining that he viewed himself as the head of a great team, or several teams, each with a leader who reported to him. Four teams not involved in the joint project of incorporating safeguards were working at another site in Beijing and assembling the remainder of the Electronic Analyst. Almost all the members were younger, and many looked up to him as their wise leader.
“That may be a little foolish on their part, but if so, then maybe I really am a little wiser.”
She gave him a tentative smile.
“And each of the
m has greater technical proficiencies than me,” AnDe concluded. “The result is a group loyal to me and to the project.”
“I see myself more as the captain of my group,” she said, and then explained that she viewed herself as overall the most technically proficient member in many aspects of their work. The others respected her abilities, but their loyalty was to the mission and their country. Each member felt responsible for his performance to the Foreign Ministry, not to Solveig.
“I respect their roles,” she said. “I direct them only as necessary, like to make their contributions fit together with mine.”
While Lars worked on the Protection Lock with her, the other four focused on integrating the vital codes with the immune and operating systems. She explained that with his greater age, height, and deep voice, Rolv loomed over the group like the executive officer of a ship. He was the task master, but he’d also be the one to keep up the spirits of the others when the work seemed unendingly repetitive or frustrating in the austere, secluded environment of the worksite.
“The worksite is rather confining,” she added.
“Really? It’s more spacious than we’re used to. I’m told they made sure it was as big as equivalent worksites in your country.”
“More of something bad doesn’t make it good.”
AnDe swallowed, then cleared his throat. “What are you saying?”
“It’s limiting, when we are trying to be creative.”
“But we’re working on abstract ideas. It’s not like landscape painting.” His expression looked quizzical. “If you like, we could bring in some diagrammatic equipment. You know, for hands-on, visual and tactile problem-solving.”
“The tinker-toy approach? I think we’re all beyond that. Unless you want it.” She shrugged. “Understand, I’m not blaming you. What I’m saying is, there’s more to breathing than just moving your diaphragm.”
They stared at each other for several seconds.
“Oh, never mind,” she said. “I don’t want to complain. I’m still adjusting. My crew will get used to it. It’ll work.”
