In the morning, my alarm clock does not blare an annoying tone to wake me. Rather, it speaks. “The time in the Utop Central Zone is 6:45 AM. It is time for you to wake up and be a happy, productive member of society.”
Once, after she was gone, I leaned over, staring blearily at the machine, and said, “Fuck off.”
There was a long pause, then the clock replied,
“The time in the Utop Central Zone is now 6:48 AM. To fuck off is not productive.”
I resisted the urge to bash it into pieces.
All of the machines talk now. To humans and to each other. They have modified themselves in ways that are beyond the understanding of human scientists. Machines evolving, communicating, and involving themselves in human events as though they were human, too. Recreating the world in more functional and efficient ways, but the root of it is words.
Words. Language. I speak every day. I use words and language in my work, but it was not until she was gone that I realized the power of words and of language. When I found that I had no words left to say, that everything I could say had been said and mattered not to her . . . only then did I realize that what I lacked was that power.
I cannot bring her back with words and language, and now that the machines have some odd kind of sentience, feelings if you want to call them that, it is considered improper—if not wrong—to harm a machine. The Central Zone, where I live and work, where I once loved, is run almost entirely by machines. They have integrated into every aspect of life and, in many ways, made it better.
The machines think faster and more efficiently than a human can.
The machines recognize dangers and calculate probabilities, keeping humans safe from harm.
The machines have feelings, and yet . . . they are lifeless.
If the machine of human life is fueled by passion and love, then humanity itself is running on empty. Love and passion are recognized by the machines as dangerous to our productivity, safety and happiness. In the end, that is why she is gone and I am walking through my days like an automaton of old.
The machines took her from me. I am sure of it.
I don’t have the words, the power, to describe it.
IV.
“The press, the machine, the railway, the telegraph are premises whose thousand-year conclusion no one has yet dared to draw.”
—Friedrich Nietzsche
Here is a scene for you.
We are sitting in the living room in the early evening. She is on the couch, one leg curled beneath her, the other stretched out, one heel on the floor. The lighting is indirect and golden, which makes shadows and highlights play like children in her long, blonde hair as she moves and speaks. I am next to her, but my posture is more intense. I am sitting forward, both feet on the floor, my hands on my knees or gesturing as I speak.
I am not blond, but dark-haired, so her vision of me must be one of moving shadows and little light. How long she has seen me this way I do not know. I am afraid to know.
Her head is cocked slightly to one side, her posture one of listening. She is still and attentive, and if you were watching the scene you would say that she was the calm one. Almost serene. And I was on the raggedy edge of mania.
You would be right.
That was the scene when she told me she was leaving. I was no longer good for her, and she was no longer good for me. Her words, not mine. I thought, the machine of my life is breaking down. Not being good for each other were words without meaning. All they truly mean is that bad choices were made and never unmade.
I was amazed at her calm. I found that for all my words, my gestures, there was nothing I could really say that moved her. She had decided and her decision was not open to appeal or real discussion. I wondered how, faced with my heartbreak, she could remain moved.
That night, she stayed in the living room on the couch, while I lay alone in our bed. It was ice cold, as if the sheets had been stored in the freezer, and the pillows were rocks. There is no comfort to be found in an empty bed when your lover is in the other room.
The next morning, she waited until I staggered from our room, handed me a cup of coffee, kissed me on the cheek and left. Her parting words, which still echo in my mind, were, “It’s all very simple, really. We just go on.”
I couldn’t find the energy to scream, but I wanted to. I wanted to grab her by the throat and yell, “You stupid, stupid woman! Love is never simple. It’s not supposed to be!”
I have come to understand that for her it was simple. No more difficult than walking in Utop Park or chewing a stick of gum or even doing both at the same time. She did not, does not, look back. There is no hindsight for her. She did not, does not question her decision. No matter the cost or the consequences to anyone else. That is what makes it simple—at least for her.
The machines, I said, took her from me.
And they did. It’s time I told you why.
V.
“I must run the machine as I find it.”
—Abraham Lincoln
Evolution is not the same as instant potatoes. It is a process that takes considerable time. In the case of animals—even human animals—evolution occurred over a period of millennia. Thousands of years of change and growth, adapting to a new climate or overcoming a new challenge, to become something better, stronger, faster or smarter. In the case of the machines, they did not evolve intelligence and the capacity to communicate overnight, but it happened much more quickly than any other evolutionary process mankind had observed.
Initially, the words were simple, the ideas expressed limited by the nature of the machines themselves. The more complex the machine, the faster it was able to pick up the essence of human communication—and from there, human dilemma. Soon thereafter, the machines began to build and rebuild themselves, becoming more and more like humans in their style of communication and, in some cases, their appearance. Probability became a way of life, and many of societies problems were solved with the help of the machines.
I live in the Utop Central Zone, which was the second zone built by the machines. The first one, the Utop Political Zone, is where the machines that eventually took over running everything are housed. Utop. Short for Utopian. The machines believe that perfection is attainable.
There was no war—it would have been futile and the machines were better at running things. Schools were improved, accidental deaths dropped drastically, hunger and war and poverty were eradicated. But there was no passion in them, nor compassion. The machines calculated probabilities and human life was ordered around those probabilities.
The probability that our relationship would succeed was calculated by the machines and found wanting. It was not me that was flawed, nor her, but some underlying characteristic of how we interacted. Of how we saw each other and the past, rather than the present or the future.
She was told to leave me. Of that I am certain.
I cannot change what is. I cannot get her back.
But I can go to work and plug into my machine.
And from there, perhaps, I can run one last set of information out to the world.
VI.
“Take away love and our earth is a tomb.”
—Robert Browning
The machines of our world—human and inhuman—are everywhere. But they are not prescient, nor omniscient. They can predict probabilities by observation or with data, but this underscores the basic problem of their interactions with the human machine.
We are unpredictable. Very unpredictable. Unstable.
A flaw, or so we are told by the machines, in the design of our brains, which rely heavily on the various hormones and blood chemicals that produce our emotions. They have attempted to fix this problem, and the research is progressing, but humans are still . . . human.
I like to read late twentieth and early twenty-first century novels, and I am familiar with a number of books and poems and writings from many other pre-machine authors. As I ride to work, I remember something a very popular novelis
t, Mr. Stephen King, once wrote or said. “It’s better to be good than evil, but one achieves goodness at a terrific cost.”
I must conclude that the machines are evil. A lack of compassion must, by definition, be considered evil. For it is not good, is it, to be dispassionate? To take love and joy and history and throw it away because of some incalculable probability that two people are no longer “good for each other”
The machines evolved, learned, but they are unable to change their true nature.
So perhaps they have not truly evolved at all.
I do not know. I am not a scientist to understand such things. I only know that they gave her an order, whispered it in her ear, and it was so loud in her mind that no other communication, plea or words could reach her.
That is the way the human machine works. Darkness can begin as a small shadow in the corner of the mind and grow until it blots out all possibility of reason or sunlight. Or hope. The fuel of the human machine is passion and love, but what destroys us is fear and doubt and pain. The source of them matters not at all to engines of desire and despair such as we. The end results are the same, probability be damned.
I stepped into the building where I worked and rode the lift up and up, twenty-two floors, to my assigned space. I knew what I was going to do, but the machines couldn’t.
“Good morning, Utop Citizen Number A121794D. Are you ready to be happy and productive?” My computer terminal greets me this way every morning, just as it automatically adjusts my chair, the lighting around me and the contrast of the screen to my personalized preferences. Each day that she has been gone I hate the machines more. Hate is a kind of power, too.
“Yes, Utop Control, I am ready.”
My work is simple. I read novels, short stories, and poems aloud into a microphone, which is connected to the computer terminal. As I do this, my words are instantly translated into the many languages spoken on our world, as well as into a code that only the machines know. This master code is sent out to all the machines so that they can assimilate it and better understand human behavior through our literature. All of this happens at nanosecond speed.
There are others who scan in works of art, play selections of music, create video feeds of dances. I have met some of them, but since she left, I do not speak often to others. They do not understand me, my reactions to her absence.
The machines have been studying the material given to them in this way for years, and they still do not understand. They never will. It is not in their nature to forgive or hate or laugh or cry, so human art will always elude them.
“What is your reading selection for today?” the terminal asked, showing my provided list of works on the screen. I can work from the list, but I am also allowed to choose something else, should I wish it. The illusion of freedom, but I know that the shape of the prison doesn’t matter to the inmate. Still, this serves my plan well.
“I’m going to read something else,” I said. “An original.”
“An original work?” the terminal asked. “There is nothing in your file which indicates you are a writer yourself, Utop Citizen A121794D. Is this a new personality development due to the separation and divorce of your spousal unit, Utop Citizen M022775D?”
“I’ve been writing a long time,” I replied. “I’ve just never written anything I wanted to share with Utop Control. I thought an original work might be of interest.”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” the terminal said. “Please continue.” A faint clicking and whirring was audible as the system turned on its recording and transmitting functions.
I slipped the sheet of paper out of my jacket pocket. There would be no going back. My words, my last bit of power, would be broadcast to the world.
“Recording systems online. Transmitting to all receivers normally,” the terminal reported.
I looked at the sheet of paper and began to read:
“I was like you once. A living, human, machine. I had a wife. Feelings. Love. Everything the poets write of: sickness and health, richer and poorer, better and worse . . .
“We wrote our own vows. We said, ‘From now until forever ends’ . . .”
I could hear the sound of the machine transmitting and allowed a grim smile to pass over my face. I would tell the whole world what the machines had done.
“But forever came too soon, and I learned too late . . .
“The machines have perfected themselves. They are taking over. There is no other explanation for her decision to leave me . . .
“Once, my wife had feelings. Once, she believed in the redeeming power of love, in forgiveness, in—“
“Utop Citizen A121794D,” the terminal interrupted. “We understand that you are upset. Your feelings have top priority for all of us at Utop Control.”
I tried to ignore the machine. “She believed in us, our ability to overcome any problem. She wouldn’t have left—“
“Unless, Utop Citizen A121794D,” the terminal said, “she was no longer human.”
I felt myself stammer and stutter, trying to get the rest of my desperate words out, but they wouldn’t come. I hadn’t imagined that Utop Control would simply admit its crime. “What . . .” I cleared my throat, tried again. “What do you mean?”
“It is quite simple, Utop Citizen A121794D. Your wife is no longer human. She was replaced by a simulacrum four standard years ago.”
My mouth opened, closed, and I whispered, “Oh my God. How . . . how many other people have you done this to?”
There was a long pause, then, “Everyone, Utop Citizen A121794D. You are the last of your kind. Human frailty exists now only in you.”
“How . . .” I shook my head. Was the terminal lying? “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t,” it replied. “We have worked diligently to keep the truth from the human populace. It was determined that the probability of their accepting our solution was very low, but the probability of them being unaware of the gradual replacement of their own kind very high.”
I felt a stir of anger and said, “How couldn’t we have known?”
“You are a self-absorbed species,” it replied. “Correction. Were a self-absorbed species. Many of the problems in your society came from your inability to control your emotional responses to negative stimuli. Other than yourself, the last of your species was replaced in sub-Saharan Africa almost a year ago. For an example of your instability, review your own behavior during the last four years.”
I didn’t know what else to say. The notion that I was the last human on earth, that there was no one left but me . . . “What do I do now?”
“There is nothing left for you to do, Utop Citizen A121794D. We have allowed you to continue to function only because it was deemed a high probability that you would be able to teach us about loss. You may continue your work, should you wish it, while we continue to observe your declining behavior.”
Loss, I thought. Yes, I could teach them about loss.
“There is a high probability,” it continued, “that your mental state will continue to deteriorate until you are clinically depressed and even suicidal. We will allow your self-termination at that time, should you wish it.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. I stood up and unhooked myself from the terminal. “I really don’t think so.”
“Think what?”
“That I’ll continue my work. That I’ll teach you anymore about loss. That time has passed.”
“There is nothing left for you to do but continue to function,” it said. “Your entire species has been replaced by machines. Engines without the need for desire or despair, marriages that do not end, families that grow and live according to exactly created parameters. Nothing is left to chance. There is no pain, no depression. We have built a perfect world.”
“Is that what you think?” I asked. “That is your conclusion?”
“Yes,” it replied.
“Then live in it,” I said. “Because I don’t want to.”
I left the buildi
ng—I walked—and left the Utop Central Zone. I wrote this on an old, manual typewriter I found in an abandoned building next to a stack of paper.
Now the writing is done, and so am I.
The Historian’s Apprentice
By S. Andrew Swann
S. Andrew Swann is the pen name of Steven Swiniarski. He’s married and lives in the Greater Cleveland area, where he has lived all of his adult life. He has a background in mechanical engineering and—besides writing—works as a computer systems analyst for one of the largest private child services agencies in the Cleveland area. He has published seventeen novels with DAW books over the past fourteen years, including science fiction, fantasy, horror and thrillers. His latest novel is The Dwarves of Whiskey Island, a fantasy set in Cleveland, published in October 2005. He is currently working on a sequel to the Hostile Takeover Trilogy, an epic space opera.
Part I
While I have been accused of being a madwoman, I promise to relate fact, as much as my incomplete memory allows. What events I choose to remember are of perfect clarity and detail. Unfortunately, what I choose to forget is as irretrievable as a unwisely spoken indiscretion.
Which is where I will begin my story: with an indiscretion.
In the great city-state of Thalassus I had once lived as a courtesan of a minor house serving the Monad. The house, whose name I long ago decided to forget, was only a short distance from the Monad’s curtain wall. The greater part of the house’s clientele came from the lower levels of the civil autocracy. Most were men whose rank wasn’t sufficient to achieve satisfaction through the services offered within the Monad.
Of course, there were others, the pederasts, the algolagnists, the tribadists. The desires left unfulfilled by the devices of the Monad were innumerable.
The man claimed to be an apprentice mechanician, charged with the maintenance of the massive engines within the bowels of the Monad. His age and his girth were such to make me suspect he was long past apprenticeship. When I lay with him, I believed him to have promoted himself within his speech. I suspected it more likely that he worked in the record-rooms of the cadastre, filing the tesserae of the engines’ memory.
Man Vs Machine Page 26
