by A C Praat
‘We did to start with.’ The comment came from a pimply boy inside the horseshoe. ‘Original attempts at flying machines tried to mimic the wings of birds.’
Astrid interrupted, ‘Please state your name before you speak for the benefit of other participants.’
The boy blushed. ‘Gregory,’ he muttered.
Mishra felt sorry for him. ‘Quite right, Gregory, and as far as I can tell, biomimicry is a big inspiration for modern robotics.’ Stop now, her brain told her. She didn’t want to invite a discussion about the bee episode. ‘Not that I’m a robotics specialist. I’m interested in the language angle.’
Astrid stepped in. ‘So if we follow your argument, Dr. McKenzie, you’re saying that using human attributes like intelligence and learning to talk about AI technologies opens up the possibility of thinking about them in a way we don’t think about other technologies. Like planes.’
Mishra sent a grateful smile to Astrid. ‘Precisely. We get around in cars and on bikes without comparing them to walking or running – the way most land creatures on the planet get around. But when we talk about AI we start worrying about issues like “consciousness” and “feelings”. About how authentic, or human-like, that experience is for robots, and for ourselves when we interact with them.’
Another hand went up.
‘Auckland,’ Astrid said.
‘Dr. Bern here. So you don’t hold much truck with the idea of rights for robots?’
Mishra stifled a sigh. She was more worried about what robots would mean for humans. ‘That rather makes my point. If we think of them as “like us” ’ –her hands made air quotes– ‘then it opens up questions about other human constructs. Like rights for robots.’
Several hands shot up. ‘Wellington,’ said Astrid, pointing to a girl with red pigtails who looked about fourteen to Mishra.
‘Michelle,’ Pigtails said. ‘Are you saying robots can’t think?’
‘I’m saying if we use the word “think” to refer to a computer algorithm running through its paces we make it seem more like us than it would otherwise seem. And then we treat it more like a person than a machine.’
‘Shouldn’t we, though?’ A bearded man at the end of the horseshoe interrupted. ‘We don’t pretend to fully fathom the workings of the human brain – it’s our black box. Likewise, the workings of a neural network become impenetrable when they’re mature – an AI black box. On that basis, how are machines using that technology any different to us?’
Hands were shooting up all over the wall and the room exploded with responses. Mishra looked at Astrid who seemed quite calm. When the hubbub had died down, Astrid said, ‘Thank you, Steven, for that insight. Would you like to respond, Mishra?’
No, she would not. But Astrid was smiling encouragement at her. ‘This gets away from the pure language argument and into my personal understanding of AI’s capability and potential. We won’t be able to develop robots with fully human capacities, like emotion and empathy, in my opinion. We can develop them to look like they’re responding in empathic ways. I think the work on counselling algorithms more than makes the point – from Eliza in the sixties to Ellie right now. But the program is not subjectively experiencing empathy or emotion – it is just identifying key words, or tropes, or facial expressions, and responding in a way its program suggests is appropriate.’
‘No different to us,’ Steven interrupted.
‘You have inverted the metaphor, Steven,’ said Astrid. ‘You are comparing us to them. We are computer-like rather than AI being human-like.’ She held up her hand to silence Steven’s further intervention. ‘Canterbury.’
‘Hi, everyone. Grace Delahunty here. You seem to be suggesting a restricted view of AI applications, Dr. McKenzie?’
Mishra nodded. ‘Precisely. I think we need to think carefully about how we apply AI in our everyday lives.’
‘Go SNKR!’ A young man sharing the Canterbury room speared his fist into the air.
Mishra flicked her head to Astrid in alarm. It was good that the Say No to Killer Robots campaign had New Zealand supporters but she wasn’t prepared to talk about the leaked code.
‘Dr. McKenzie does not wish to speak about the recent events in Adelaide.’
A momentary silence, and then hands waved, trying to win Astrid’s attention, and voices rose.
Again Astrid waited for calm. ‘Palmerston North.’
‘Fred.’ The man folded his arms over what looked to be a barrel-like chest. ‘Autonomy.’ He paused, letting the word settle, a challenge to his listeners.
A grandstander, Mishra thought. If it diverted the conversation away from SNKR and Adelaide, all the better.
‘Do you have an application in mind, Fred?’ Astrid asked.
Fred unfolded his arms and leaned onto the desk. ‘I’ve been working on predictive models. Based on an input set of characteristics and circumstances, my models can better predict the likely long-term outcomes for certain sorts of events than people can.’
‘Could you be more specific?’ Astrid said.
‘I’m saying my models can make better decisions than humans when it comes to doling out interventions in the youth justice sector.’
As hands waved and the hubbub grew again Mishra considered her answer. There were plenty of psychologists she knew who would agree that humans weren’t great at predicting future behaviour. Some said humans were just too complex to guess what individuals would choose to do next. On the other hand, there was a decent body of evidence that indicated simple algorithms did a better job at predicting outcomes in some fields, like a candidate’s success in some jobs. But there was the ick factor: was it right that a machine should determine whether a human should have access to social goods like rehabilitation as Fred had suggested? The argument was a close relative of robots making life-and-death decisions on the battlefield.
‘I think we need to carefully consider where we give away our decision-making,’ Mishra said. ‘For example, we could consider timeframes: how far into the future are we are happy to trust the analysis supplied by predictive models? How narrow or wide should the applications be? We are a long way from general artificial intelligence, I think. And if we think of intelligence across a range of domains – ethics, practical judgement, emotional intelligence – I doubt we’ll ever get there with AI.’
Hands shot up all over the country, but a voice, deep and distorted, cut across the murmur before Astrid had a chance to select a participant.
‘Stop looking.’
The loud bang that followed caused people to cover their ears and curse. One of the blank projections died.
Mishra grabbed her bag and fled.
THIRTY
‘You saw?’ Sauers spat, his colour still high from what had evidently been a sprint back to the apartment from the university after Mishra’s fireside chat. ‘He is playing with us – this “Stop Looking.”’
‘I heard,’ Brett replied. ‘Turned off the video function. Didn’t want to be recognised.’
Sauers nodded, still pacing the apartment. He’d seemed exhilarated after they’d overheard Mishra’s conversation with Charlie Breen, but now he was angry. The pacing slowed, then stopped.
What was he thinking?
Sauers turned a cold stare on Brett. ‘Hebden doesn’t think it’s Roberts warning her either. And this DH – this Philip has contacted the journalist. Who then? Who is following her every move? Who is warning her?’
Brett stared back, focusing on the justice of his own actions. His concentration left no room for emotion; no room for mistakes. ‘Philip – if it is Philip – has contacted only the journalist, not Mishra. If it is him maybe he doesn’t want to see Mishra. I don’t know.’
Sauers muttered something under his breath and stalked to the bathroom.
When Brett heard the shower running he let out his breath. For a second there he’d been sure Sauers was going to accuse him of warning Mishra. But the latest communication through Charlie left room for doubt. So
mebody new was in play.
If it was Philip, Mishra would try and contact him. And then there’d be two targets for the bees. Just following orders, Sauers had said when Brett questioned him about failing to modify the bees.
What exactly were Sauers’ orders? And why had Hebden brought in a security contractor when the mission had the potential to blow Australia’s international relations out of the water if it all turned to shit? Was Hebden deliberately distancing himself from the mission?
‘But where does that leave me?’ Brett asked aloud. Barefoot in a minefield, stumbling around in the dark.
THIRTY-ONE
Day five after contacting Charlie, and she still hadn’t responded. Philip swapped his secateurs from one gloved hand to another and stretched his fingers. Perhaps the editors hadn’t passed on his email. Maybe his message had been too vague. He’d felt sure she would respond to his appeal for help. He’d even risked signing off with the initials of his new identity.
‘Damon.’ Wil waved him over from the other end of the row of trees they were pruning. They weren’t on Wil’s orchard, but on a block closer to town that Wil was minding for a friend who was overseas. Like Wil needed the extra work with a broken foot.
The best that could be said about the situation was that the cell phone coverage here was excellent. It was difficult not to constantly check his messages, even when his alerts were on.
Wil sat in the sun on a fold-up chair beside the bamboo shelterbelt with his injured foot propped onto a chilly bin. An open thermos steamed in the short grass beside him and next to that sat the biscuit tin. He handed Philip a mug of coffee and indicated the other chair.
‘You like the pruning better.’ It was a statement not a question.
Philip nodded. ‘That fishmeal yesterday.’ He screwed up his nose. ‘And I prefer working without the noise.’
Wil sighed. ‘Not the business for you then. But even in orcharding the machines are taking over. They say there aren’t enough people to do the work. Growers are investing in your field: robotic pruners, robotic harvesters.’ Wil sipped his coffee and glanced at Philip. ‘I’m glad I’ve had my chance; I never wanted a desk job.’
Philip thought back to applying the stinky fishmeal. He’d been using the sprayer towed behind the tractor. Self-drive agricultural machines would be welcome to that job. He glanced at Wil while he helped himself to a biscuit. People always hated change. He did too.
His phone beeped.
Wil raised his eyebrows.
‘This is useful technology.’ Philip waved his phone at Wil as he stood up, then walked away along the head row.
His pulse was thrumming in his ears. No one else had this phone number; it must be Charlie. The sender’s name on the email was a jumble of alphanumeric text, but the subject line made his heart beat harder: Hope.
Dear DH
Charlie Breen passed your message to me. I hope I can help you. Please let me try.
Frangipani
Charlie had shared his message. Why would she do that? He tugged off his cap and raked his hands through his hair. He hadn’t asked for confidentiality, just assumed that as a journalist she would be wary of sharing any communication she received.
Frangipani.
Please.
In his memory, Philip sat in an armchair, holding out his arms. The woman with the frangipani scent and the sapphire eyes searched his face from her beanbag on the floor, hesitant.
Please, he said to Mishra.
As he cradled her, he was relieved and grateful and aroused and sad.
It won’t always be like this, he said.
Philip sank to the ground under the weight of the memory. Frangipani – it could only be Mishra McKenzie. How he had loved her. God knows his dreams were full of her.
Was it time to stop running? The urge to see her was undeniable. But he still couldn’t understand why he’d left the yacht. Had it been an accident?
‘Damon.’
He looked over his shoulder. Strange how he’d become used to answering to that name. Wil had folded up the chairs and packed the chilly bin. Time to go back to work. Philip read the message one more time, then pocketed his phone. By the end of this block, he promised himself, he would have decided what to do.
‘Are you all right, Damon?’
He nodded. ‘An old girlfriend.’
‘Ah.’ Wil was waiting for him to elaborate, an expectant smile on his face.
Philip shrugged and picked up his secateurs.
‘Keep your secrets,’ Wil said.
Philip’s head jerked up and he scanned Wil’s face. Did he suspect something?
Wil clapped him on the back. ‘Women, the eighth wonder of the world.’
Philip grinned his relief and strode back up his row. The tops of the trees weren’t quite high enough to offer protection from the midday sun, but underfoot the going was easier than at Wil’s place. This was closer to a conventional orchard – the grass clipped short, the weeds between the trees poisoned out of existence. As he walked, another image assailed him.
Greenery brushed his legs as he walked toward a counter. He was scared and miserable. Somebody was after him.
Frangipani, he said to the woman and gave Mishra’s name and an Adelaide address. The florist wanted to know his message, but his mind was blank – how could he explain? Then he blurted: This was the only way to make things right. Good luck for your sabbatical. X
The secateurs fell from Philip’s hand. He had been running away – the only way to make things right.
He bent to retrieve the secateurs and scanned the tree for water sprouts while his mind raced. Snip. There was another. Snip.
The only way to make things right.
Why?
In his office at the Institute, his heart raced.
‘I’m onto you, Philip.’ Brett spat at him. Then the man’s foul morning breath was right in his face. ‘We’re onto you.’
‘Get out,’ Philip yelled and picked up the phone to call security.
‘Stupid bastard.’ A door slammed.
Philip leaned over his recycling tub and retched. Now he knew he was right. He had to leave. It was the only way to keep Mishra safe.
In the orchard, the trees became a green haze as tears trickled down Philip’s face. He took off his sunglasses and wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt. It was him. He’d leaked the code and run away. Brett knew he’d done it. Leaving had been a tactic to draw attention away from Mishra.
Probably dead, that article had said.
And there was the memoriam notice.
Could they still be looking? His avid scanning of the media in the days since he contacted Charlie had revealed little. The only new thing he’d discovered was that Brooke, a bee specialist, and Frank, a robotics engineer, were no longer listed on the pollination project’s home page. Frank had been older – too old to fit the description ‘young man’. Though neither of them had been happy with a military takeover of their project.
It was me.
Memories assailed him in a staccato rush. Snatches of conversations, emotions, faces. Too fast, too chaotic to make sense of. He stumbled around the trees into the next row and collapsed onto the grass with his head between his knees.
Damon Hunter. DH. Mishra must have recognised his acronym. And she wanted to help. Was she still up here searching for him?
Would she be in danger if he contacted her?
She hadn’t signed her name; but she may as well have. Frangipani: her perfume, her favourite flower. Philip inhaled the memory of her, then shuddered. He wanted to see her. But how and where?
Somewhere unconnected to either of them. Not the orchard. Not the beaches where they’d searched for him.
‘Damon.’
Philip staggered to his feet, brushing his face on the arm of his T-shirt, then jammed on his sunglasses as he jogged back into the row toward Wil. An idea had occurred to him. ‘How long are you looking after this block?’
Wil narrowed his
eyes. ‘Let’s see.’
Philip waited, scrunching his toes in his shoes with impatience.
‘Another couple of weeks.’
‘And when will we be finished the pruning?’
‘Thursday.’ Wil wobbled his head. ‘Give or take.’
‘Excellent.’
Wil grinned at him. ‘You have decided about your girlfriend?’
Philip nodded, then headed back up the row. They could meet here. Maybe Saturday. Four more days to wait.
He bent to snap off another water sprout. How could he let her know the location? Electronic communications were too easy to intercept. Would a conventional letter reach her fast enough? He scoured his mind for options while he plugged away at the trees. Rex might know where she was, or Rawinia.
For some reason he had yet to comprehend, the thought of contacting Rawinia left him uneasy. And he didn’t know where to find Rex – or even what his last name was. It could be the same as Rawinia’s; they were cousins.
Too complicated. He would ask Frangipani for an address to which he could send directions. The less said over email the better.
Philip scanned the orchard for Wil. He’d probably be somewhere with his foot up by now. A couple of hours on his feet was long enough for his leg to pain him. In another hour they’d be driving home for lunch.
He pulled the phone from his pocket. Even an hour was too long to wait now he’d decided his next step.
He tapped his phone.
Frangipani, please send a safe postal address and I will send directions to you for us to meet this Saturday.
If she’d left for her sabbatical in Wellington, she’d need time to get here. He’d have to give her a ballpark location.
Or maybe he should travel to her. Would seven hundred dollars be enough? The pin on that money card might come back to him; that would give him access to more money. Or would it? So many things he still didn’t know.
