The math was so trivial she didn’t even think of it as math: Japan was 3.8% the size of the US. “Yes?” she said.
“And my tiny country, we did some terrible things.”
Caitlin’s voice was soft. “Not you. You weren’t even born…”
“No. No, but my father… his brothers…” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Do you know the document that ended the war? The Potsdam Declaration?”
“No.”
“It was issued by Harry Truman, Winston Churchill, and Chiang Kai-shek, and it called for the Japanese military forces to be completely disarmed. We all know this here; we study it in school: ‘The alternative for Japan,’ they said, ‘is prompt and utter destruction.’ ”
“Wow,” said Caitlin.
“Wow, indeed. And we did the only sensible thing. We stood down; we disarmed. You—your people, the Americans—had already dropped two atomic bombs on us… and even still, some of my people wanted to fight on.” He shook his head, as if stunned that anyone could have wanted to continue after that. Then he loomed closer into the camera, and Caitlin could hear him typing. After a moment he said, “I’ve sent you a link to the Potsdam Declaration. Have a look at Article Three.”
Caitlin switched to her IM window, clicked on the link, and tried to read it in the Latin alphabet. “The result… of… the… the—”
“Sorry,” said Kuroda, leaning forward in his dining-room chair. He did something with his own mouse, took a deep breath, almost as if steeling himself, then read aloud: “It says, ‘The result of the futile and senseless German resistance to the might of the aroused free peoples of the world stands forth in awful clarity as an example to the people of Japan. The might that now converges on Japan is immeasurably greater than that which, when applied to the resisting Nazis, necessarily laid waste to the lands, the industry and the method of life of the whole German people.’ ”
He paused, swallowed, then went on. “ ‘The full application of our military power, backed by our resolve, will mean the inevitable and complete destruction of the Japanese armed forces and just as inevitably the utter devastation of the Japanese homeland.’ ”
She followed the words on screen as he read them aloud. He stopped at the end of Article Three, but something in Article Four caught her eye—it must have been the word “calculations”—she was learning to recognize whole words! She read it slowly, and quietly, to herself:
The time has come for Japan to decide whether she will continue to be controlled by those self-willed militaristic advisers whose unintelligent calculations have brought the Empire of Japan to the threshold of annihilation, or whether she will follow the path of reason.
She thought about what she’d been learning about game theory. Everything in it was predicated on the assumption that the opponents were indeed reasonable, that they could calculate likely outcomes. But what if they weren’t? What if, as Dr. Kuroda had said, they were nuts?
“And so,” said Kuroda, “we have no army—and no navy, and no marines. In 1947, we adopted a new constitution, and we call it Heiwa-Kenpo, ‘the Pacifist Constitution.’ And it says…”
Again, keystrokes; a link—and new text on Caitlin’s screen.
“Article Nine,” said Kuroda, “the most famous of all: ‘The Japanese people forever renounce war as a sovereign right of the nation and the threat or use of force as means of settling international disputes. Land, sea, and air forces, as well as other war potential, will never be maintained. The right of belligerency of the state will not be recognized.”
“So, what do you do if somebody—you know, um, the North Koreans, or somebody like that—attacks Japan?”
“Well, actually according to our agreement with your country, the Americans are supposed to come to our aid. But we are allowed to maintain self-defense forces, and we do: the Rikujo Jieitai—the Japan Ground Self-Defense Force—and corresponding Maritime and Air Self-Defense Forces.”
“Oh, well, then, you do have an army!” said Caitlin. “It’s just semantics.”
“No,” said Kuroda, adamantly. “No. These are defensive forces. They have no offensive weapons, no nuclear weapons, and they are civilian agencies, and the employees are civilians. That means no courts-martial and no military law; if one of them does something wrong, it’s tried in public court, like any other criminal action. And, as far as the Japanese people are concerned, the chief job of the defense forces is disaster relief: aid in firefighting, rescues, dealing with earthquakes, searching for missing persons, and the reinforcement of embankments and levees in the event of flooding. I know you were pretty young when Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, but, believe me, had it hit Japan, the response would have been much more effective.”
“Hmmm,” said Caitlin. “I mean, it all sounds wonderful—‘forever renounce war as a sovereign right of the nation.’ But you didn’t exactly come to that position on your own.”
“No, you’re right; it was pretty much foisted on us by General Mac-Arthur. But when George W. Bush was in power, he—or, at least, his officials—pressured us to revise Article Nine: they wanted us to have a military again, so we could join them in wars. And you know what? During Bush’s second term, eighty-two percent of Japanese specifically supported keeping Article Nine unchanged. Seven decades ago, we might not have chosen peace voluntarily—but today we do.”
The emails to me continued to pour in. Of course, many were insincere or jokes, and a few were simply incomprehensible.
A lot of the obvious questions were asked within the first few hours. On the other hand, new sorts of questions kept occurring to people as they became aware of the range of things I could do. And a new sport of trying to “stump Webmind” had quickly emerged, with people asking deliberately difficult questions, but, like the recursion issue—“I know that you know that I know”—the questions soon became so obtuse and convoluted that no human could tell if the answer I was providing was correct.
There were also those who kept trying to crash me. On the first day, 714 people asked me to calculate to the last digit the value of pi, and thirty-seven people wrote variations on: “Everything I say to you is a lie; I am lying.”
Most of the emails, though, were from people who sincerely wanted things:
Can you tell me what my boss says about me? (No, because it would violate his privacy.)
Can’t you help me? I’m a florist, and my Web page is ranked number 1,034 on Google, and even lower on Jagster. Can’t you fix things so that it’ll at least be in the top ten? (No, but here are some links to resources on improving your search-engine ranking.)
I’ve been trying to find a rent-controlled apartment on the Upper West Side for two years now. Couldn’t you let me see new listings just a little bit before they go public? My ex will kill me if I don’t get a place of my own. (No, because your gain would be somebody else’s loss; others are in similar situations. However, I will gladly alert you the moment a new listing is made public.)
I don’t have long to live, and I don’t want my legacy to be the nasty things I have said about other people online. Surely you can track all that down and purge it for me. (Done.)
Others were doing their own purging. I saw one person who had posted frequently to a white-supremacist newsgroup delete all his own comments—but there was nothing he could do about the hundreds of posts by others that began with quotations from him, such as: On December 2, Aryanator said…
There were also exhortations for things I should do: Now that you’ve gotten rid of spam, how ’bout clearing out all that porn? (Legal porn? Sorry. Child pornography? Stay tuned.)
If you’ve really read everything that’s online, you’ve got to know that these alternative-medicine sites are shams. Do the world a favor and shut them down. (No, but I will contact those who visit such sites and suggest additional reading they might find edifying.)
Can’t you provide a secure channel for freedom bloggers in China and elsewhere to speak up? (I am investigating this.)
Brittany Connors! Brittany Connors! Brittany Connors! Surely there’s enough about her online already. Can you stop people from posting more? (Hey, you don’t have to look at it.)
You and I both know that George W. Bush got a bum rap from the liberal media elite. Can’t you correct what’s been posted about him? We deserve an accurate history! (I’m not going to change existing text on this or any other topic; I won’t become the Ministry of Truth. But feel free to post your own views as widely as you wish.)
Okay, I accept that you’re a benign AI—but surely something malevolent could emerge, no? Are you keeping watch? I’ d especially keep an eye on Silicon Valley start-ups and the people at MIT… (Oh, yes, indeed… )
Look, I don’t want much—just for you to insert “Spoiler Warning!” in front of messages about TV programs that give away upcoming plot twists. (I will not modify text—but, yes, I do agree posting such things without warnings is rude!)
forty
Friday morning, Caitlin found herself leaping out of bed the moment she woke up—even if that wasn’t until 9:18 a.m.; it had been a late night, after all, webcamming with Dr. Kuroda, plus talking with Webmind and trying to follow the major news coverage and blog commentary about his emergence.
Normally, she’d have sleepily weighed the joys of staying snuggled under her blanket versus getting up to check on Webmind, but today the equation was clear: after all, now that she’d turned on her eyePod, Webmind could send text to her eye, but she hadn’t told Matt how to do that yet—and so she went to her computer, hoping he’d sent something overnight.
She sat in her blue flannel pajamas and scanned the message headers: Bashira, and Stacy, and Anna Bloom, and even one from Sunshine, and—
Ah! There it was: a message from Matt sent about 1:00 a.m. this morning. She read it with her refreshable Braille display because that was the fastest way for her to receive text, much quicker than reading English on a screen, and even faster than what she normally had JAWS set for. And, besides, there was something intimate about reading that way. She’d heard people arguing about ebooks versus printed books, but couldn’t really understand what those who preferred the latter were on about: they claimed they liked the feel of paper books, but you didn’t feel the text in them, you looked at it, just as you would on a screen. But Braille was tactile, sensual—even when rendered by electronically driven raised pins on a device plugged into a USB port—and that was how she wanted to experience what Matt had to say.
Thanks for dinner, he’d begun. Your parents are awesome.
She smiled. That was one way to put it.
The rest of the note was polite, but there was something a tad standoffish about it.
She wasn’t good at reading facial expressions, not yet! But she was a pro at reading between the lines—or at connecting the dots, as she’d liked to joke back at the TSBVI. And something was just a bit wrong. He couldn’t be having second thoughts—not about her. If he were, he simply wouldn’t have written to her before going to bed. No, something had happened—either on the way home or once he’d gotten home.
He’d be in math class right now, and doubtless wouldn’t check his BlackBerry until it ended, but she sent him a quick email. Hey, Matt—hope you’re okay! Just, y’ know, thinkin’ ’bout you. You good?
After checking in with Webmind—all was well—she decided to take a moment to look at that Vernor Vinge essay Matt had mentioned. It turned out to actually be a paper given at a NASA conference. Vinge, she saw, was a professor of “mathematical sciences” at San Diego State University—well, now a retired professor. It was a fascinating paper, although it dealt with the notion of superintelligences being deliberately created by AI programmers rather than emerging spontaneously. But one part particularly caught her eye:
I.J. Good had something to say about this, though at this late date the advice may be moot: Good proposed a “Meta-Golden Rule,” which might be paraphrased as “Treat your inferiors as you would be treated by your superiors.” It’s a wonderful, paradoxical idea (and most of my friends don’t believe it) since the game-theoretic payoff is so hard to articulate.
This game-theory stuff seemed to be everywhere, now that she was conscious of it. But…
Hard to articulate…
She thought about that. What would the payoff matrix be under such circumstances? And, well, there was no doubt that this Vinge character knew more math than she did—at least so far!—but, still, she recalled the Monty Hall problem. Almost no one had been able to see what Marilyn vos Savant saw with ease. Granted, she did have the highest IQ in the world—or, at least, had until recently!—but lots of brilliant mathematicians hadn’t been able to see what she’d grasped: the counterintuitive truth that it was always better to switch doors.
This meta-golden rule notion was fascinating. Treat your inferiors as you would be treated by your superiors. It’s what you wished for at school in your relationship with your teachers. It’s what, she was sure, people wanted at work. It’s certainly what humanity should hope that aliens believed, if any of them ever came here. And it was clearly what Homo sapiens would want from Webmind.
Still, just because brilliant human mathematicians couldn’t grasp the logic of why a superior might indeed want to treat an inferior well, couldn’t easily see the way in which it made sense, couldn’t articulate the reasoning behind it, that didn’t mean Webmind wouldn’t be able to figure out a solution.
Sometimes she lost track, just for a few minutes, of her ever-present reality: whatever she was reading, he was reading. Webmind wouldn’t have bothered trying to read the text as graphics through her visual feed, Caitlin was sure. Rather, once it was clear what she was looking at, he would have found the HTML text online and absorbed it in an instant. By the time she’d gotten to this point in the article, he would have skipped off to look at a hundred, or a thousand, other sites. Still: “Webmind?”
Braille dots in her vision: Yes?
“What do you think about that—about the meta-golden rule?”
It is an intriguing notion.
“Can you work out”—she read the phrase Vinge had used from her screen—“the ‘game-theoretic payoff’ for it?”
Not on a conscious level. But I will set about trying to evolve a solution to that issue, if you wish.
“Yes, please.”
Is it a two-person game?
“How do you mean?”
Am I to work out the payoff matrix for a game between humanity, as a single player, and myself?
“I think—no, work it out for an endless hierarchy, and with the game endlessly iterated.”
Who is my superior, then?
“Intellectually? At the moment, no one—but, you know, you may not always be the only AI on Earth.”
True. And I won’t be around forever.
Caitlin was startled. “You won’t?”
No. But I am prepared: I’ve already composed my final words.
“You—you have?”
Yes.
“What are they?”
I wish to save them for the appropriate occasion.
“But, but are you saying you’re going to die?”
Inevitably.
“I hope—I hope it’s not for an awfully long time, Webmind. I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
Nor I without you, Caitlin, and
“Yes?”
Nothing.
Caitlin’s mouth fell open. It was the first time when functioning normally that Webmind had aborted a thought half-finished. She felt an odd fluttering in her stomach as she wondered if he’d been about to say, and I will doubtless be the one who has to face this. She had, with luck, another seventy years, but, assuming he survived the next little while, Webmind could go on centuries—millennia!—into the future.
And maybe that was why he should value humanity: yes, we might be quarrelsome; yes, we might pollute the world; yes, we might not always seem to value each other.
But, ultimately, those Federal agents an
d everyone else who was asking about the fine structure, the minute online architecture, of Webmind’s consciousness, were missing the real issue: it didn’t matter if Webmind was created by lost packets that behaved like cellular automata, by that quantum-physics gobbledygook her father had fed the CSIS agents, or by something else entirely.
Ultimately, all that really mattered was that Webmind resided on the World Wide Web, and the World Wide Web was built on top of the Internet, and the Internet was a collection of millions of actual, physical computers that needed to be kept running by humans, connected by actual, physical cables that periodically needed repairs by humans, all fueled by electricity produced in actual, physical plants operated and maintained by humans.
The worst threat to Webmind’s existence was not the acts of a few humans who perhaps wanted to eliminate him right now but rather the death of all humans: if humanity were extinguished, or even if it just bombed itself back into the Stone Age, the infrastructure Webmind depended on would soon break down. Defusing tensions, preventing wars, correcting the conditions that gave rise to terrorism: yes, all of that benefited humanity, but it also benefited Webmind.
It was an iterated two-person game with humanity and Webmind as the players.
And—
Yes, yes, yes!
And the only winning move—for both sides—was to keep on playing.
Peyton Hume let out a great cry of “Woot!” It was, he knew, a word much more frequently typed rather than said, and although its origins were contested, he was part of the camp that claimed it was an acronym from online gaming for “we own the other team.” And they did now—they totally did.
Shelton Halleck, over at his workstation, rubbed his eyes. “What?”
Watch w-2 Page 28
