Charles Stross - Singularity Sky

“Primitive they are: their internal discourse is crippled by a complete absence of intertextuality. I cringe in astonishment that Festival wastes its attention on them.”

“Hardly. They are Festival’s antithesis, do you not feel this in your whiskers?” Sister Seventh blinked redly at She Who Observes, pawing for the control tree of the somatic bench. “Here we see a nest-drone.” The scene slewed into an enclosed space, following the abducted cobbler into the walls of the castle, “Phenotypic dispersal leads to extended specialization, as ever, with the usual degree of free will found in human civilization. But this one is structured to prevent information surge, do you not see?”

“Information surge? Prevented ? Life is information!” Sister Seventh farted smugly. “I have been monitoring the Festival. Not one of the indigines has asked it for information! Artifacts, yes. Food, yes. Machines, up to and including replicators, yes. But philosophy? Art? Mathematics? Ontology? We might be witnessing our first zombie civilization.” Zombies were a topic that fascinated Sister Seventh. An ancient hypothesis of the original preSingularity ur-civilization, a zombie was a non-self-conscious entity that acted just like a conscious one: it laughed, cried, talked, ate, and generally behaved just like a real person, and if questioned, would claim to be conscious — but behind its superficial behavior, there was nobody home, no internalized model of the universe it lived in.

The philosophers had hypothesized that no such zombies existed, and that everything that claimed personhood was actually a person. Sister Seventh was less convinced. Human beings— those rugose, endothermic anthropoids with their ridiculously small incisors and anarchic social arrangements — didn’t seem very real to her. So she was perpetually searching for evidence that, actually, they weren’t people at all.

She Who Observes was of the opinion that her littermate was chewing on the happy roots again, but then, unlike Sister Seventh, she wasn’t a practical critic: she was an observer.

“I think we really need to settle the zombie question here before we fix their other problems.”

“And how do you propose to do that ?” asked She Who Observes. “It’s the subjectivity problem again.

I tell you, the only viable analytical mode is the intentional stance. If something claims to be conscious, take it at its own word and treat it as if it has conscious intentions.”

“Ah, but I can so easily program a meerkat to chirp ‘I think, therefore I am!’ No, sister, we need to tunnel nearer the surface to find the roots of sapience. A test is required, one that a zombie will stick in, but an actor will squeeze through.”

“Do you have such a test in mind?”.

Sister Seventh pawed air and champed her huge, yellow tusks. “Yes, I think I can construct one. The essential characteristic of conscious beings is that they adopt the intentional stance: that is, they model the intentions of other creatures, so that they can anticipate their behavior. When they apply such a model to others, they acquire the ability to respond to their intentions before they become obvious: when they apply it to themselves, they become self-conscious, because they acquire an understanding of their own motivations and the ability to modify them.

“But thus far, I have seen no evidence that their motivations are self-modifying, or indeed anything but hardwired reflexes. I want to test them, by introducing them to a situation where their own self-image is contradicted by their behavior. If they can adapt their self-image to the new circumstances, we will know that we are dealing with fellow sapients. Which will ultimately influence the nature of our review.”

“This sounds damaging or difficult, sister. I will have to think on it before submitting to Mother.” Seventh emitted a bubbling laugh and flopped forward onto her belly. “Oh, sibling! What did you think I have in mind?”

“I don’t know. But be it anything like your usual—” She Who Observes stopped, seeing the triumphant gleam in her sister’s eye.

“I merely propose to Criticize a handful of them a trifle more thoroughly than usual,” said Sister Seventh.

“And when I’m done, any who live will know they’ve been Criticized . This is my methodology …” Commander Krupin took nearly two hours to get around to seeing Vassily Muller: it wasn’t intentional on his part. Almost as soon as the main drive field was powered up and running, and the ship surfing smoothly away from the Klamovka beanstalk, his pager beeped: ALL OFFICERS TO BRIEFING ROOM D IMMEDIATELY

“Shit and corruption,” he muttered. Passing Pavel Grubor: “The old man wants me right now. Can you take care of the shipyard technician and find out how long he’s going to be in closing out the installation of the baseline compensator? Page me when you’ve got an answer.” He headed off without waiting for a response.

Mikhail Krupkin enjoyed his job, and didn’t particularly expect or want any further promotions; he’d been in shipboard systems for the past fourteen years and expected to serve out his career in them before enjoying a long and happy retirement working for some commercial space line. However, messages like this one completely destroyed his peace of mind. It meant that the boss was going to ask him questions about the availability of his systems, and with the strange patch boxes installed in the drive room, the Lord Vanek might be mobile, but he couldn’t in all honesty swear it was one hundred percent solid.

He didn’t know just what was in those boxes, but he was sure there was a reason why the Admiralty was spending several million crowns on a drive upgrade. And in any event, they’d been remarkably cagey about the extra control software for them. Boxes, hooked into the drive, which also hooked into the new, high-bandwidth linkup to the tactical network: something smelled.

All this and more was on his mind as he took the express elevator up to the conference suite in officer country. The door to Room D was open, waiting for him. Most of the other senior officers were already there. Ilya Murametz, the ship’s executive officer, Lieutenant Helsingus from fire control, the usual battle operations team, Vulpis from Relativity … he was probably last, but for the Captain, by reason of having come farthest. “Ilya. What’s going on?”

Ilya glanced at him. “The Captain is with the Admiral. When he arrives he will make an announcement,” he said. “I don’t know anything about it except that it’s nothing specific.” Krupkin breathed a silent sight of relief; “nothing specific” meant that it wasn’t about the running of the ship. Nobody was going to be hauled over the coals today. Not that Captain Mirsky was a martinet by the standards of the New Republican Navy, but he could be merciless if he thought someone was asleep at the switch or not doing his job properly.

Suddenly there was a change of atmosphere in the room. Everyone turned to face the doorway: conversations stopped, and officers came to attention. Captain Mirsky stood for a long moment, surveying his staff. Evidently what he saw gratified him; when he spoke his first words were, “Gentlemen, please be seated.” He walked to the head of the table and laid down a thick folder in front of his chair.

“It is now 1130. The door to this room is shut, and will remain shut, barring emergencies, until 1200. I am authorized to inform you that we are now under battle orders. I am not privy to the political discussions behind our orders, but I am informed by Admiral Kurtz’s staff that it appears likely that no resolution of the crisis short of war is possible; accordingly, we have been ordered to proceed as part of Task Group One to Rochard’s World, by way of Battle Plan Omega Green Horizon.” Now he pulled his chair out and sat down. “Are there any questions about the background before I go into our specific orders?” he asked.