LIV: SPRING BREAK 5.0
“You’re up early. We don’t need to leave for over an hour,” my mom says. A beige towel wrapped on top of her head highlights her surprised expression.
“I’m going to Lana’s for breakfast,” I answer, which is true, though I don’t want to get into why I’m going.
“Good. Tell her she’s welcome at the store today.”
I give a thumbs-up as I hustle over to Lana’s kitchen, a flipped version of ours.
Lana and her father are sitting at the table, waiting for my arrival. Both are in their typical morning outfits—Lana in pajamas and a robe, and Doctor O in his khakis and crisp collared shirt.
“You two had quite the conversation last night,” Doctor O says. “Lana couldn’t stop talking about it. I’d like to hear what you think.”
“I think,” I start, as Lana turns to me with spotlight eyes, “that these are things that you have to hear for yourself and make up your own mind.”
“Very diplomatic,” he says, beneath a small Owens chortle. “Grab something to eat and let’s dial into the ether.”
“No, thank you. I’m not hungry yet.” I don’t want to delay and chance other opportunities to offer my own opinion. I set my phone on the table between us but pause before dialing. I’ve been trying all morning to talk myself out of the lingering paranoia that we’re pushing this too far.
“What’s wrong?” Doctor O asks.
“I’m worried we’re breaking the rules,” I say.
“What are the rules?”
“That’s the problem. They’re not exactly clear about it. We’re just not supposed to help him.”
“And you think these conversations are helping him?”
Ugh. I have no idea. Not directly, but indirectly? That’s why my head is so twisted around this. I wasn’t so worried about it when winning was only a pipedream. But now, it’s not. I have a real shot at it, and I don’t want to blow it.
But then there’s Lana. This is our thing. This is her hope. What the heck do I know? Maybe there is something to her plan. She knows her dad better than me. And he definitely seems interested in all of this.
“I don’t know. What’s one more call? Maybe you can tell me if you think we’re helping him. It’s about cognitive development, and you’re definitely more of an expert than I am.”
Lana likes this answer.
“Let’s just be careful,” I add.
They agree.
“Hello.” Breck answers on the first ring.
“Hi, Breck. It’s Liv, Lana, and Doctor O,” I say.
“Wayne,” Doctor O reminds me again. It’s still weird to use his first name. He’s a doctor and he’s Lana’s dad.
“How are you today?” I ask.
“I’m confused,” Breck answers.
Lana swiftly elbows her dad who had been sweetening his coffee. He shoots her a look, but it’s playful. I love how they act around each other. I think it’s mostly envy. That would have set Mom off.
“What are you confused about?” Doctor O asks, wiping away the tiny mess.
“I don’t know where to begin. Nearly everything.”
“So, list a few things off. Don’t worry about the order.”
“About me. About the three of you. About this challenge. About this cliff. About Sam. About my family.”
Lana turns to me and mouths inaudibly, “He has a family too?”
As Breck continues his list, I tap mute. “Part of the programming. He has a backstory. Nothing detailed, but it’s something. They’re memories.”
“That never happened, right?” she confirms back.
I peer cautiously at the phone to confirm it’s muted. “Yes, but he doesn’t know that,” I remind her.
They both nod as Breck continues. “I don’t even know what stars are. What are they?”
Doctor O taps unmute. “They are like the sun, but very far away.”
“Are there other people on them?”
“Not on the stars, probably. They’re too hot. But there may be planets nearby, like earth, that we can’t see. And those planets might have people on them. We don’t really know. They’re too far away.”
“It’s like a fishbowl,” he says.
Doctor O eyes the phone with an intrigued expression. “Meaning?”
“We can see outside of the bowl, but we are unable to go there.”
“I don’t know if they can come here to visit us either. It’s very far away.”
“Then we are all like fish in bowls,” Breck concludes.
“I never thought about it that way, but maybe. That is an intriguing parallel,” he answers, with a range of expressions that mirrors what’s happening in my own head. This is leagues beyond basic reasoning. It’s creative, introspective, and even feels…self-aware.
Doctor O jots a few illegible notes on a legal pad, then peers up. “Why are you asking about stars, Breck?”
“You asked what I don’t understand. I sat beneath the stars last night and for the first time in my life it occurred to me that I don’t know what they are. And, I had never thought to ask before. This is a good example of what I don’t understand. Not only do I not understand most of what’s around me, and I also don’t understand why I never sought to understand it before.”
“And how do you feel about that,” Lana jumps in.
“Confused. And I am also still feeling alone.”
“Can you describe what you mean by feeling alone?” Doctor O asks.
“I am without Sam. You are only voices that are elsewhere, somewhere I do not know. I am the fish, unable to move forward or backward to where anyone else is.”
“So, no one is with you right now, which therefore makes you alone. Do I understand that right?”
“That is the definition of alone, not the feeling,” Breck answers.
Doctor O raises a protective elbow to his side, anticipating Lana’s nudge. “Go on,” he says.
As he did last night, Breck again describes the difference between thoughts and feelings, plus his inability to control what he says he feels.
Doctor O taps in a slow, pensive rhythm on the pad of paper.
“Hello?”
“We’re still here, Breck. I’m thinking.”
“Are these feelings relatable to you?”
“Remarkably. I think we need to have some…private conversations now. But thank you. This has been helpful.”
“I assume this is about other things you believe I wouldn’t understand,” Breck remarks.
“You’re good at understanding that,” Lana says.
Breck laughs.
Not a deep, guttural belly-roll, but a laugh nonetheless. This isn’t him saying he has feelings, this is him showing an emotional reaction. It’s jarring—and not just for me. The three of us each swivel our gazes like sprinkler heads to the other two at the table, quickly pivoting from one to the other.
“Shut up!” Doctor O suddenly barks. “This isn’t funny. That wasn’t an appropriate way to respond!”
If my chin could hit the table, it would. It can’t possibly drop any farther from the top half of my face.
“I apologize. I did not plan it. It was an unanticipated reaction to Liv’s comment.”
“Well, it was stupid. What do you have to say for yourself?” He leans aggressively toward the phone, which is also toward me. Holy crap. I back away.
There is silence. Deep, long silence.
“You may have your private conversation. Goodbye.”
Breck hangs up.
Lana looks at her father with eyes as large and white as eggs. “What—”
He interrupts her by holding up a calming hand. “I was seeing if I could prompt an emotional response.”
“Oh.”
“In him. Not you.” He winks at her.
“Well…did you?” she asks, her expression quickly shifting.
His normally confident posture falters. He shifts and looks down at his notes. “I’m not an expert on this. I work with people.”
“But—” Lana starts, before she’s silenced.
“I hear you,” her father says. “He sounds very…person like. But so are other AI’s. We already talked about Turing and, if you’re asking my professional opinion, that’s what this probably is.”
“But other AI’s don’t talk about struggling with their emotions,” Lana answers.
“That’s true, though it was just talk.”
“You heard him laugh, right?” Lana asks.
“We all heard him laugh. But again, that’s a reaction in response to stimuli. That doesn’t mean he felt the feelings behind it.”
“Then why did you yell at him?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “I was trying to see what might happen. An experiment? Like he said, it wasn’t planned.”
“Well, he seemed offended if you ask me,” Lana says, then bites a large chunk of toast and leans back in her chair, making her position clear.
“I don’t know. He retreated, which is probably a programming cue but could be an emotional reaction. It raises a bigger question, which isn’t a new one. But it’s fascinating.” He turns to Lana. That question is…” He slows his words. “How do you prove sentience? This isn’t a new question. People have debated it for thousands of years. Not because of computers, but animals. For a long time, most people didn’t think animals had emotions. They even have a word for it. Anthropomorphism. Projecting human traits onto animals, or anything non-human. And now, even those who do believe animals have feelings don’t know where to draw the line. A dog? A mouse? An ant? They added lobsters and crabs to the list of sentient animals a couple of years ago. It wasn’t because they started feeling then, but because our understanding has evolved. The problem is that emotion is defined by the experience. And the only real way to know what that’s like is…to experience it yourself. Anything else, and you’re only observing and projecting. It’s a little like debating perception of time. What’s to say that you and I experience time moving forward at the same pace? We can agree that it moves forward.” He grabs his pen and streaks an arrow on the notepad in front of him. “And we can objectively measure what a second is. But how can we know if I perceive one second of time at the same speed that you perceive it? Maybe the world moves a little slower in my head, but there’s no way to prove it. It’s the same with emotions. We’re only able to objectively gauge reaction.”
I’m fascinated, nearly crisscross-applesauce with juice box in hand. I could listen to him talk about this all day.
“They’ve never found a good experiment to prove emotion?” I ask.
“They’ve tried. But there’s not a perfect test. I think most social scientists today would agree that a horse has emotions. But it’s more inferred than proven, coming from a tacit acknowledgment that we’re more similar than dissimilar to horses. And if they demonstrate feelings in a similar way to us, then they are likely experiencing them also.”
“And,” he continues, “even when tests do show higher function, there’s debate over whether that’s really emotion. For example, you can train a dog with any sized treat, small or large. But a few years ago someone did an experiment where they trained two dogs side-by-side. One got a small reward, the other got a large one. Eventually, the dog that got the small reward stopped performing. She realized that she was being treated unfairly. Neat, right?”
Lana and I nod in unison.
“But what does that mean? Is it just some effect from an evolutionary strategy that a dog shouldn’t settle for second best, or is it a feeling of inequality, or rejection, or lack of appreciation? It’s hard to prove, let alone define.”
Lana’s mom enters the kitchen. She and Lana are wearing matching robes with floral print designs similar enough to the wallpaper them that they could pass as camouflaged against it. “Well y’all are certainly serious right now,” she says, kissing the top of Lana’s head. “Would you like anything, Liv?”
“No ma’am. Thank you.”
“He doesn’t know anything about his reality, right?” Doctor O asks me.
“Nothing,” I say “Why?”
He glances at the ceiling, his usual fountain of thought, as though debating with himself.
“I suppose making him aware of his situation could test his reaction. Survival is primal. That might not prove emotions, but it could prove he has a will to survive.” Rows of wrinkles swell on his forehead like tiny waves of contemplation, highlighted by shadows cast from the lights overhead. He places a pensive hand across his brow and slides it back into his hairline.
“Which all life has. Machines don’t care if or where they exist. Only life does. I’m only thinking out loud here. It could also end up being incredibly cruel if he’s really . . .” He pauses, unwilling to state the words we all know he’s pondering “. . . beyond anyone’s expectations.”
“Except mine,” Lana blurts.
“Duly noted,” Doctor O says.
I’m getting nervous about where this is going.
“I think that would be bending the rules a little too far,” I say.
“Right. Right. I forgot about that for a moment. And—I have to say—I’d be hard pressed to understand how you’re not going to win.”
Lana fists pumps toward me then asks, “So, what does all this mean?”
“It means that I don’t know what it means. Maybe I’m like people years ago who dismissed animal emotions out of skepticism, or superiority. But I’m doubtful. I suspect that Liv is a really gifted programmer, and Breck is a very vivid reflection of that. Because if he’s something more than a reflection, then we have crossed some threshold that is probably bigger than the three of us can imagine. Which is, again, why I’m highly skeptical. But—” he starts, walking to refill his coffee.
I’m all ears. I think he likes having a captive audience too, because his pauses are a little dramatic.
“You’re going to talk to your AI department?” Lana leaps in, as though words could cartwheel.
“That would be the engineering department. And no,” he chirps, shaking his head in playful disbelief. “But maybe this could make for an interesting academic paper.”
“At Rice?” Lana asks.
“As a nice first piece at Amherst, where we’re going,” he says. He leans against the wall, with baby-blue flowers swirling around him. “I would like to better understand these challenges. Lana said he’s completed two out of the four. What are those challenges based on, Liv?”
“Piaget’s five stages of development. It starts in stage one and there’s a challenge to move to each of the next stages,” I state, a fact I had looked up earlier this morning, anticipating it might arise.
He gently rebounds off the wall, fully attentive.
“Piaget?”
I nod.
“That’s used for childhood cognitive development.”
Lana now perks the same as her father.
“I suppose,” he starts, eyes darting once more to the ceiling. “Yes, that makes sense with the goals of the contest. But Piaget only has four stages.”
I shrug. I was moving quickly and didn’t have time to dig deep into Piaget.
“Well, this is at least something that’s right in my wheelhouse. I have a meeting in a few minutes, but let’s talk more about this later. I’ll do some digging to see what other papers are already out there. Oh, by the way, how’s your mom’s store doing? She remodeled, right?”
“It’s off to a slow start.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Kids need a place where they can touch and explore. Piaget stage one,” he winks. “You know I worked with your grandfather when I first joined the elementary school board. We did a holiday toy drive for years.”
“I think I knew that,” I answer.
“Anyway. He was a good person. I like that your mom is trying to continue his legacy. And it’s good you’re there this week. Maybe you can help her,” he says, reminding me that my biggest challenge today may still be in front of me.
As he leaves the kitchen, Lana looks at me, and I already know what she’s going to say.
“Dude, he’s biting.”
BRECK: SIMULATION #38
I sit on the cliff ledge with feet dangling, staring into the vast expanse beyond my reach. I am still sealed in the final ten-foot stretch of the tunnel. The two doors behind me remain closed, trapping me between the ledge and the wall that divides the tunnel.
I’ve spent the morning pushing randomly on walls, like I did in the room for days on end, except today it was accompanied by an awareness of my limitations. I should be able to get past this ledge, but I cannot. The conflict between these notions is bothersome. I feel like less than I am capable of.
As I sit consumed by this feeling, I’m distracted by a speck of movement in the distance. It’s the cart—it’s moving back toward me, and it’s empty. Or rather, it appears empty until it finally arrives. There is a note taped to the inside of the cart.
Find Sam
Knowing there was a point to my night alone makes me feel good. Knowing that I have a clear objective makes me feel even better. Little else seems as clear as these brief instructions.
I step inside the cart and am soon whisked down the cable, away from the tunnel. I’m surprised at how much faster it feels while riding. Sam appeared to disappear so slowly. Nothing about this feels slow, or stable. The cable is anchored at several points along the path to poles jutting out from the side of other mountain faces, causing abrupt shifts in direction, nearly dumping me below on the first of these turns. I hold on tightly.
At last, the cart nears the ground and stops on a small island in the middle of an inlet, with a vast sea to my left. In front of me, there is something which should not surprise me by now. Doors. There are twelve of them.
They are slender, each about the width of my shoulders, and arranged in an arc around the half-perimeter of the island across from me. A dense forest looms on the other side of the water. Above the treetops, a single stone tower rises in the distance.
The remnants of waves enter a narrow opening to this cove, lapping against the door frames, flush against the water’s edge. Each door appears to lead nowhere, other than the water on the other side. All are identical, except what is etched into each—a separate letter of the alphabet. At first glance, there is no apparent order—L, T, S, B, A, F, C, E, G, N, U, R.
In the middle of the island, there is a waist-high wooden post, holding a small tablet. I step out of the cart and walk toward it. Carved into the tablet is a riddle.
I can wave but never speak,
Offer food and deadly drink,
Ignore the sun when time to rise,
A homonym within your eyes.
I wander through schools but don’t attend class,
I’m all you have left if you dare to trespass me.
My first letter will mark a door you may pass,
With your goal in mind, wise choice is best,
If you are wrong, a week here must elapse,
To try another door to move past.
I read it six times, wondering with each pass whether it will make more sense. It does not. I focus on the individual lines themselves, trying to think of an answer for any one of them. But again, nothing comes. These words are not walls, cabinets, keys, or alleyways. No amount of pushing or discovering a lucky combination will solve this. This requires something else. Something I’m not sure I have.
I hold my hand out in front of me and wave it, as though this might spark me to think of something that doesn’t spark when I merely imagine a hand waving. The only effect of this is reminding me that I am waving to no one—I am still alone, as if standing stranded in the middle of an island isn’t enough of a reminder.
It’s not as though I could never solve this. Or at least pass this challenge. There are only twelve doors. I have an eight percent chance of choosing correctly if I were to open a random door. And, choosing randomly, the longest this would take me would be three months. I’d get through. But I’d have to sit here. By myself.
This is not an appealing proposition.
I put down my waving hand and pay attention to other clues—eyes, food, the sun.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Sam.
I think of Sam. He followed this same path. And he is not here. Presumably, he would have encountered the same situation, the same clues, the same decision, and he has already passed through.
How could this have happened? Could it be that this is easier than I think it is?
Perhaps I could approach the solution from a different direction. What if I think of words that begin with the letters and see if they fit? I begin with L.
Leaves. No.
Litter. No.
Lizards. No.
Lamps. No.
Luck. No.
Lard. No.
Limes. No.
Lips. No.
Lint. No.
Lead. No.
Lotion. No.
Leopards. No.
This will not work. There are too many possibilities. And even if I consider all that I can think of, it will not be an exhaustive list. There must be a better approach.
I read the riddle several more times.
How could Sam have solved this when I cannot?
How could the person who thinks I’ve died every time I close my eyes be able to see something here that I am missing?
The more I think about this, the further my mind drifts away from what I should be doing—solving the riddle. It is a counterproductive train of thought. Still, the urge to go down this path is too tempting. I am too filled with . . . anger?
This is not frustration. It’s different. I’m mad.
I am better than this. Even if Liv, Lana, and Wayne don’t agree.
But no amount of staring at these words validates this belief.
I am stuck again with the answer in plain sight.