BRECK: SIMULATION #37.3
I check the door behind me. It is locked. I check two of the other doors and they are also locked.
I walk to the middle of the plaza where I can see directly into the tunnel. The other side is not visible. There are no lights on the walls. There is nothing, other than an opening into darkness.
I should start immediately, but again, there is an unfamiliar sensation inside of me. A feeling? I know I need to go inside, but not knowing what is in there prompts me to hesitate. It is not logical. This is the path toward the goal. But this sensation does not appear to originate from thinking. It comes from elsewhere.
I would prefer Sam being here with me. I would prefer not to do this alone. I would prefer to be able to see what is in the tunnel. Is this fear?
The phone in my pocket vibrates. With it comes a more sudden surge of this strange state I am experiencing. My pulse quickens as I reach for the device and place it to my ear.
“Hello?” says a voice.
“Hello. Is this Liv?”
“Yes, and I’m also with Lana and her father, Doctor Owens.”
“Wayne Owens,” a deeper voice says. “You can call me Wayne.”
“Do you each have a phone?” I ask.
“We have you on speaker,” one of female voices says. I can’t tell whose voice it is.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means that we can all talk to you at the same time with one phone,” the female voice says.
“Okay,” I answer.
“What are you doing right now?”
“I’m standing in a plaza looking at the tunnel.”
“How did you find the tunnel?”
I explain my observations about those who wear green and red shirts, my conclusions from this, and how this led me here.
“Are you about to go in?”
“Yes,” I answer, then ask my own question. “Who are you?”
“We just told you.”
“Yes, I remember. What I mean to ask is who are you in relation to what I’m doing? I still do not understand why you are calling me.”
“We’re calling you to talk,” the female voice says.
“That is what you said when we last spoke. To talk about what?”
“We want to know more about you.”
“And I want to know more about you,” I say, stepping into the shade cast by one of the plaza walls.
“That seems fair,” Wayne says. “How about this? We get to ask you two questions and you get to ask us two questions. Does that work?”
“Yes.”
The three talk in hushed voices among themselves. I can only hear fragments of their discussion. “You’ll ask smarter questions . . . okay . . . we’ll split . . . remember, he can’t . . . and no suggestions.”
I do not know what meaning to take from anything they are saying. It only raises more questions. What are they not telling me and why?
“Who asks first?” I ask.
“You can. We’ll go one question at a time,” Wayne answers.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“The living room of my house,” Wayne says.
“Where is the house?”
“That is two questions,” Wayne says.
“You did not give a complete answer to the original question,” I say.
“Dang. He’s got some attitude,” one of the girls says softly in the background. I think it is Lana. I am still learning the difference between the voices of the two girls.
Again they speak softly to each other.
“We’re a long way away from you,” Wayne finally answers. “In a different city. You’ve never been here before.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“That’s another question. It’s our turn.”
“This conversation is difficult,” I comment. As I say this, I consider my other conversations recently. Speaking with Sam is also challenging. So is speaking with the green- and red-shirted people. Is this how conversation has always been? I think back to life before this challenge, but I can’t recall specific conversations. How can this be? I remember things, events, people, but they are all vague memories lacking detail.
“What makes it difficult?” Wayne asks. His voice is louder, as though he moved closer to the phone.
“The answers only prompt more questions.”
“That makes sense,” Wayne says. “Well, here is my question.”
“Didn’t you ask a question already?” I ask.
“Ha!” One of the girls blurt in the background.
“Shhhh!” The other says.
“That’s funny. And fair,” Wayne says. “I was responding to your comment. I do have a real question if you’re open to hearing it. We did let you ask a follow-up question about my house.”
“That is true. And fair, as you said. Ask your question,” I tell him.
“Why are you talking with us right now? Not just because we called you, but what keeps you from hanging up the phone and walking through the tunnel?”
I pause to consider this. Why am I talking to them?
“I don’t understand the goal of this discussion,” I say. “But, I have learned enough about this challenge to know that I don’t know what I don’t know. Unplanned exploration and observation seem important to moving forward. I had to try everything in the room to understand that the cabinet and door were connected. I had to wander streets aimlessly to find people in green shirts. Perhaps this is another form of wandering.”
When I finish, again I hear them whisper among themselves. The only thing I can clearly hear from this is, “I told you!”
“It is my question now,” I say. “Where is Sam?”
“I don’t know,” says one of the girl voices.
I consider this response along with other observations from this conversation. “Do you not know, or can you not tell me?”
“Both. There are some questions we can’t answer, but we do not know where Sam is.” I believe this is Liv’s voice. Her words are more enunciated and evenly metered than Lana, and her pitch is slightly higher.
“Why are there questions you can’t answer?”
“We can’t help you with your challenges.”
“Then why did you call me?”
“I guess you could say that we’re observing also.”
“Do you work for the people who created this challenge?”
“You’re past your two questions, but yes, in a way, you could say that. Now, it’s our turn to ask. What do you think of Sam?”
“He is difficult to understand. He does not listen well. He does what he wants, and it is often not the same thing that I am thinking. Also, the way I think about him is changing.”
“What do you mean?” Liv asks.
“Before we left the room, I do not recall ever questioning whether Sam and I were different. I do not recall thinking about him at all. I was focused on the room. I do not know how to describe this well, but I am now focused on more than the challenge itself. I am also focused on Sam, and on me. My interactions with Sam are among many experiences now that I do not completely understand.”
“Thank you, Breck,” Wayne says. “Unfortunately, we have to go now. Good luck on your challenge.”
“Will I talk with you again?”
“Yes!” Lana says.
“When?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll call you.”
They hang up before I have an opportunity to respond.
LIV: SPRING BREAK 4.3
“I’m sorry for ending that abruptly. I have another call soon and I wanted to make sure we had a few minutes to talk before that,” Doctor O says to the two of us, clustered across from him, leaning against each other in the V of a weathered loveseat.
I’m blown away. How has Breck made it through the first part of the second challenge already? He only cleared the first one this morning. He could actually do this by Friday.
I am so going to light up the chat boards.
For the moment, Renaissance isn’t even close to top of mind.
“Liv, wow, that’s impressive. Do you know what the Turing test is?” Doctor O asks.
“Yep.”
“I’d have to say that Breck passes that test, for me at least.” He grins.
“Can you back up? I don’t know what the Turing test is,” Lana says.
“Fair. I didn’t either, but I did some quick Googling about AI when you asked me to talk to Breck,” Doctor O says. “Back in the fifties when computers were being developed, they were trying to figure out how to test the limits of AI. A guy named Alan Turing came up with an idea for a test. If you could talk with a computer and a human, and you couldn’t tell which was which, then the computer must be intelligent.”
“So, he’s intelligent? I told you so, Dad,” Lana says.
“You did. And he at least passes that test. I mean, I told him good luck, because it seemed like the right thing to say.”
That’s funny. And true! I didn’t even think anything of it when he said it.
“And there’s another thing that I thought was interesting,” Doctor O continues. “He seemed to understand the concept of reciprocity. When someone does something for us, we feel compelled to do something back for them. This is a very human trait, and Breck showed this with the exchange of questions. We allowed him to ask more than one, and when we pointed this out to him, he made a similar concession. Did you program that directly into him, Liv?”
“Meaning, is there a line of code that tells him to act with reciprocity?” I ask.
“I don’t really understand programming, but that’s the gist of it. You said he learns. Did he figure that out on his own, or is it a way that he’s told to act?”
“There aren’t specific instructions for that. So, I suppose he learned it.”
“Fascinating,” Doctor O answers.
Hell yeah. I’ve never had someone call anything I’ve coded fascinating.
“So, what does that mean?” Lana asks, her voice brimming with hope.
“It means that Liv should be proud of what she’s done.”
“Do you think he’d be worth . . . studying?” Lana asks, her voice uncharacteristically sheepish.
“I’m not tracking your question.”
“I mean, is this something that you would consider studying?”
Lana looks to me for support. I realize my program is at the center of this conversation, but I don’t believe that’s where my mouth should be. I avoid her eyes.
“Okay.” Doctor O leans back in his chair, dropping his leg to the floor and tilting his head back, exposing his half-receding hairline to the light overhead. The reflection beams toward me as though it were from an actual bulb shining on his head. “I think I’m understanding things a little better now. You didn’t ask me to talk to Breck just so you could hear my thoughts.”
“Not exactly,” Lana admits.
“So,” he says, “to connect the dots here, how would my studying this keep us here, instead of moving? Are you job hunting for me?”
“No. Not much. Or nothing specific. I just thought that . . . well, you lost funding. That’s why we’re moving, because we’re going somewhere that has money for what you currently do. But if you think about Breck, it’s kind of similar to what you’re studying. He’s like a kid. He’s learning new things, trying to understand what’s happening, dealing with challenges.”
Doctor O glances down, aiming a regretful expression toward the carpet. He’s not as expressive as his daughter, but they are clearly related. He takes a deep breath, ready to interject.
“Hear me out. Please,” Lana continues, her shoulder leaning into mine. “I did some Googling. AI psychology is a new area and there’s all kinds of interest in it and money being thrown at it. And you said it yourself, this is fascinating. I’m not saying that you study Breck, but if it’s interesting, maybe you could see if there’s a way to study this where you are. Here. Not in Massachusetts. Rice has AI classes.”
Lana clutches the top of my hand next to hers on the sofa.
“There’s a lot to respond to there,” Doctor O begins with his typical calm demeanor. “First, I study development in children. Humans. Not computers. Breck is certainly remarkable, but he’s not human.”
“But he passed the Turing test, and he shows reciprocity.”
“The Turing test is how they gauged how smart a computer was last century. If you do a customer service chat today, you’re probably talking with a computer. Or any of the other countless AI chats out there. I’m not the expert on them, but I think they all pass the Turing test.” He turns to me. “I’m sorry, Liv. I’m not trying to downplay this. Real intelligence is more than mimicking, or illusion. And as for reciprocity, I do think that’s impressive, especially if Breck truly learned it, but it’s not a very complex idea—if you do something for me, I should do something for you.”
Lana opens her mouth to speak, but her dad continues. “I heard you out. Please do the same for me. Reciprocity?” he says with a quirky twitch of his brow that reminds me of Lana. “I’d need to confirm this, but I think the interest in AI psychology is how people interact with it, not how AI itself develops or thinks. I’m not trying to dismiss anything Liv did. I think it’s amazing. But it’s a computer. There’s no . . . psychology to it.”
Lana nudges me to speak. I want so badly to support her. This is crushing me as much as Lana is crushing my hand. But Doctor O is right. As amazing as Breck is, he’s code. He’s a program. If you dig deeper, he’s only 1’s and 0’s. He’s learning how to meet the goals he’s been programmed to achieve.
I’m torn between my agreement, my own pride in Breck, my desire to be a good friend, and my own stake in Lana not moving away.
“He is learning really quickly,” I say, trying to find some kind of middle ground.
“It’s not about the speed. It’s about what he is. Or, what he isn’t,” Doctor O retorts.
Lana looks at me, but I don’t know what to add.
“Maybe we can all talk with Breck later in the week and see where this goes,” Doctor O breaks the silence.
“Tomorrow,” Liv says. “I know you don’t think speed matters, but I want you to see how quickly he’s changing.”
“I’m happy to do that. I think this is cool and I’m curious to see where it goes. But—” He stumbles for a moment, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “My job . . . what I study . . . is people. Developmental psychology. As intricate as Breck is, I promise you that we are thousands of times more complex. And that’s what I’m interested in. Understanding and helping people. Mostly young people.”
Lana releases my hand and wipes the sleeve of her shirt across her eyes. The hint of a sniffle follows.
“I have to go take that call. Lana, let’s talk more later. I know this isn’t what you want.”
“You’re right. It isn’t,” she answers flatly.
I try to put my arm around her, but she swats it off.
“And that’s why we should talk more about it,” he answers, mirroring her tone as he walks away.
As soon as he is gone, Lana gets up and turns to me. “He’s your creation, and you couldn’t stand up for him.”
And suddenly, I’m whiplashed and alone in Lana’s living room.
BRECK: SIMULATION #37.4
I have been walking for ten minutes in the dark. The light from the tunnel entrance behind me provides only enough illumination to see where to step. Each footfall on the gravel beneath me echoes, producing metered acoustic feedback to my walk.
In the distance, a faint light appears, and along with it the outline of a figure.
“Sam?” My voice reverberates around me.
“Yes.”
Seeing him prompts a feeling—a pleasurable one. Happy, if I had to name it. I walk faster.
As I approach, he is staring at a wall that blocks the tunnel. Within this wall are two doors on opposite sides, each with a small window through which the tunnel exit is visible. Between these two larger doors, there are more than a hundred smaller cabinet doors that line the middle of the wall; half are blue and half are yellow.
“It is good to see you,” I pronounce, now that I am closer.
“There are fifty-three cabinets of each color. All are empty. Both doors are locked.” He gestures toward the wall.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes.”
Sam’s expression is blank, void of evidence that he is experiencing what I am feeling.
Why is his reaction important to me? The information he is telling me is of more value. It is helpful and related to advancing toward the goal. His reaction is irrelevant. However, I want to understand this.
“Have you been waiting for me?” I ask.
“Yes,” he answers. “It has not been possible yet to get through these doors.”
“So, you need to wait because you can’t move forward?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Why did you leave me?”
“You were not moving.”
“I recall closing my eyes. I was with you at night. Then it was the next day.”
“Yes, you stopped moving.”
“This has happened twice now. I don’t know what it is,” I say.
He doesn’t respond.
“So why did you leave? Did you think I was dead again?” I ask.
“It was not clear.”
“But I wasn’t dead the last time.”
“That is why it was not clear,” he answers. “But you were not moving, and it was time to go forward.”
“You’re not understanding what I’m saying. I thought we are doing this together,” I say.
“That is correct. We are back together now. But you were not moving before, so we could not make progress together.”
“But we are no further along now than if we had stayed together.”
“So it made no difference,” Sam concludes, affirming my sense that we are indeed different, and emphasizing how significant this difference may be.
Another question emerges from this. If I am different from Sam, does this make me unique compared to only him, or compared to everyone else?
I can’t recall ever questioning this before. The happiness I felt in seeing Sam is replaced by something negative. I no longer want to think about this or discuss it.
“Tell me about the wall,” I say.
“There is one key,” which he holds up to show me. “It fits in both doors but opens neither. Opening the cabinets does not unlock the door. The windows will not break.”
I walk to one of the doors and inspect it. There are no hinges. The doors appear to slide in and out of the wall. I grab a door handle and try to slide it, but it will not move. As I do this, I peer through the small, square window at eye level. The tunnel extends about ten feet beyond the wall, where it abruptly ends. From the cliff’s edge of the tunnel, there is a drop into a vast valley thousands of feet below. There is one lone cable affixed to the end of the tunnel and a small cart attached. The cable leads down toward the valley farther than I can see.
I step back to survey the wall once more.
While I am having trouble understanding Sam’s reactions, I can understand his thinking prior to my arrival. Based on what we have experienced, I would have done the same things he described.
“Have you tried to open each of the cabinets?”
“Yes, fourteen times.”
Revision. I would have done the same things, but not fourteen times. It is time to try something new.
“Have you tried to open all of the yellow cabinets or all of the blue cabinets together?”
“No. That is a good idea.”
He hustles to the wall and begins to open blue cabinets.
“I did not mean to start doing it right away. I was simply mentioning an idea,” I say.
“And it is a good one, so it should be done,” he answers, while swinging two cabinet doors open, one with each hand.
“Perhaps there are better ideas,” I say.
“Like what?” he asks with his back turned, continuing his efforts.
“I don’t know. I’m simply talking as I am thinking.”
“And we should do this as you are thinking.”
I join him until the blue cabinets are all open. Sam then inserts the key into the first door and tugs. It doesn’t budge. He repeats it on the second door, which is also unsuccessful.
We repeat the same exercise with the yellow cabinets and the doors remain locked.
I back away from the wall and stare at it.
“What if it is a combination of cabinets? Maybe one yellow and one blue?”
Again, I’m only stating ideas, but Sam acts on them. This time, I don’t join. I continue to think.
With fifty-three of each color, there are 2,809 distinct combinations. However, this only represents sets of one blue and one yellow cabinet. What if the correct combination is two cabinets of the same color? Or, what if the combination is more than two cabinets? Without knowing the parameters, there are billions of possible combinations. Even if we could test a new combination every few seconds, we would likely be here for years.
There are too many cabinets.
Like the myriads of streets and alleys. Like red shirts.
I think back to what these were. Distractions.
What if these cabinets are the same? What else have we not tried? What do we have fewer of?
The key.
“Can you show me the key?” I ask.
Sam hands me a small silver key.
I walk to the door on the right side of the tunnel and insert the key, much like Sam had done moments before. It slides inside smoothly and turns, as if it belongs. but the door does not move.
I walk to the door on the other side of the tunnel. The results are the same.
Unable to wait for me to finish, Sam opens and closes more cabinets. It is an unmethodical effort.
Until these past few days, I would have done the same. Why am I critiquing his approach now when I did not do so before?
Am I truly different now than I was only days ago?
Why do my thoughts continue to circle back to this question?
I find no answers, but in watching Sam I do come to one conclusion; he needs me.
There is a feeling that accompanies this thought. I don’t have a name for it, except that I think of Sam as a friend. No, that’s not exactly right. I feel Sam as a friend. And I have never experienced a friendship in this way.
Sam needs me.
It feels good to think this.
I say it several times over in my head, both enjoying and questioning the sensation at the same time.
Wait.
Sam needs me.
I think back to his response to my question; he was waiting because he was unable to move forward.
Sam needs me to move forward.
Again, I assess the wall and its many features with this thought in mind.
“I have an idea. Go to the other door,” I say as I move toward one of the doors.
He follows my instruction.
I insert the key into the door in front of me, then turn it. I look at Sam, some thirty feet away.
“Now, try to open that door,” I say.
Sam does. The door effortlessly slides open.
He quickly steps through to the other side.
But the victory is brief. As I let go of the key to join him, it turns back on its own and the other door shuts once more, sealing me on the inner side of the wall, again separated from Sam.
I run to the door where Sam entered and attempt to move the handle in any direction possible. My efforts yield no results. I dart between the two doors, trying to open the passage on my own, but I am unable.
This makes no sense. Why would we need to accomplish something together so that we would once again be separated?
I peer through the window at Sam who moves toward me doing the same. His nose is so close it’s nearly touching mine.
“Can you open the doors from your side?” I ask, unsure if he can even hear me.
“No,” he says, his voice far more distant than inches away. “There are no handles on this side, and they will not slide.”
“Is there anything on the wall on your side?”
“No, there is nothing other than the two doors.”
I try to consider new ideas, but I can think of none.
“Do you have any ideas?” Sam asks.
“No,” I answer. I do not ask the same question of him.
“Maybe someone else will come to help you pass through,” he says.
“Maybe.”
He turns around and walks toward the small cart at the edge of the cliff. He inspects it while I do the same through the door window. It is a simple design—a square cart, about five feet deep with a slender gate. Sam opens the gate, places a foot inside, then one more, until only his shoulders and head are visible. He grasps one of the four bars, which extend from each corner, bending to connect in the middle beneath a small clasp attached to the cable.
He appears ready to descend. Then abruptly, he steps out of the cart and returns to the window.
“We cannot go forward together right now,” he says, his face covering most of the narrow glass pane.
Silhouetted by the clear sky beyond the tunnel entry, his blue eyes appear like holes in his head. I’ve noticed this once before, when his back was to the door in the room where we started. I try to recall what I felt at that moment, but I don’t recall feeling anything. It was only an observation. Now, it is as if I am looking into him, searching for something. A way to better understand him.
All he wants to do is go forward. That’s it. And I know this urge. I experienced it for so long, and I still do, but it is clouded by so many competing compulsions.
My response does not matter. He will leave regardless. But I will let him know that this is a decision I support, even if that doesn’t matter to him.
“You should go. We are supposed to move forward, toward the goal.”
He nods, and within seconds he is back in the cart. He secures the gate, and the cart begins to slide, whisking him down the cable.
As soon as this happens, both of the doors slide open.
I walk to the cliff’s edge, alone, as Sam slips into the distance.