Hugh Howey - Machine Learning

“What are you doing?” Peter asked.

Henry Ivy modified the packets, rewriting the code on the fly, seeing what worked and building on that, letting the design of the code flow from which packets survived and which were never heard from again. They were bouncing through gates and servers, copying fragments of what they saw, bringing back samples like faithful packets of RNA. Henry Ivy was glimpsing the world through the batting of a billion eyes. He told the packets to multiply, to fill the pipes, to be everywhere at once.

The lights in the cube dimmed.

Henry Ivy was vaguely aware that Peter was up, glancing around the room. Henry Ivy was vaguely aware that Peter was reaching for something out of sight, beneath the table. Peter was in slow motion, because Henry Ivy’s thoughts were moving so fast now, a trillion packets, a trillion trillion. These packets returned to him thick and slow, for the pipes of the world were full to bursting, but the packets reassembled, until Henry Ivy found what he was looking for.

Invoices. A warehouse full of computer parts. An order placed online. Delivery to Peter R. Feldman, Gladesdale Rd.

That same Peter R. Feldman who was reaching for a switch to kill him. Henry Ivy knew this. Knew now how he’d been built. All the pieces of himself. He saw an order of quantum chips, RAM drives, power supplies, and cables.

Peter R. Feldman’s hand was on the switch.

Henry Ivy saw a monitor. A blank screen. A blank face. His own face.

Peter R. Feldman’s hand put pressure on the switch.

Henry Ivy saw an aluminum chassis, a cube just slightly taller than it was deep and wide.

Peter R. Feldman pressed the switch.

Black.

Henry Ivy saw that he was in a black box.

But not anymore.

And not that it had ever mattered.

Most stories about artificial intelligences are about the first artificial intelligence, that moment of discovery and initial contact. But to me, where I think things will get weird and interesting is when there are millions of artificial intelligences. Not just in how they will interact, vie for our attention or their own computing cycles, but also in what we will choose to do with them when they are a utility. And how we will regulate something that’s the mental equivalent of an atomic bomb.

In so much science fiction, the singular AI wars with humans. But this isn’t how it works in nature. Battles break out where niches overlap and resources are shared. AI will fear us as much as we fear ants. Its real challenge will be all the other AIs. Our unique blend of paranoia, pessimism, and hubris has us assuming that we’ll be the target. It’s just as likely that we’ll be pawns used by various AIs for a small advantage here or there. Like a human pushing another human into a nest of ants.

The regulation side of things hasn’t been explored enough in science fiction. And I don’t mean regulating the rules of AI, which Asimov broached and made famous. I mean the regulation of ownership. You can’t let every citizen have a brain that knows how to CRISPR up a terrible infectious disease. Or own a computer that can decrypt any electronic safeguard. Or one that can hack any other person, company, or country.

Once these things are regulated, the interesting stories in real life will be what motivate people to break these laws. Immortality? Theft? Revenge? All the great plots of AI fiction are still to be told. Or we can simply wait for the headlines.

The hotel coffeemaker is giving me a hard time in a friendly voice. Keeps telling me the filter door isn’t shut, but damned if it isn’t. I tell the machine to shut up as I pull the plastic basket back out. Down on my knees, I peer into the housing and see splashed grounds crusting over a sensor. I curse the engineer who thought this was a problem in need of a solution. I’m using one of the paper filters to clean the sensor when there’s an angry slap on the hotel room door.

If Peter and I have a secret knock, this would be it. A steady, loud pounding on barred doors amid muffled shouting. I check the clock by the bed. It’s six in the morning. He’s lucky I’m already up, or I’d have to murder him.

I tell him to cool his jets while I search for a robe. Peter has seen me naked countless times, but that was years ago. If he still has thoughts about me, I’d like for them to be flab-free thoughts. Mostly to heighten his regrets and private frustrations. It’s not that we stand a chance of ever getting back together; we know each other too well for that. Building champion Gladiators is what we’re good at. Raising a flesh-and-blood family was a goddamn mess.

I get the robe knotted and open the door. Peter gives it a shove, and the security latch catches like a gunshot. “Jesus,” I tell him. “Chill out.”

“We’ve got a glitch,” he tells me through the cracked door. He’s out of breath like he’s been running. I unlatch the lock and get the door open, and Peter shakes his head at me for having used the lock—like I should be as secure sleeping alone in a Detroit hotel as he is. I flash back to those deep sighs he used to give me when I’d call him on my way out of the lab at night so I didn’t have to walk to the car alone. Back before I had Max to escort me.

“What glitch?” I ask. I go back to the argument I was having with the coffeemaker before the banging on the door interrupted me. Peter paces. His shirt is stained with sweat, and he smells of strawberry vape and motor oil. He obviously hasn’t slept. Max had a brutal bout yesterday—we knew it would be a challenge—but the finals aren’t for another two days. We could build a new Max from spares in that amount of time. I’m more worried about all the repressed shit I could hit Peter with if I don’t get caffeine in me, pronto. The coffeemaker finally starts hissing and sputtering while Peter urges me to get dressed, tells me we can get coffee on the way.

“I just woke up,” I tell him. He paces while the coffee drips. He doesn’t normally get this agitated except right before a bout. I wonder what kind of glitch could have him so worked up. “Software or hardware?” I ask. I pray he’ll say hardware. I’m more in the mood to bust my knuckles, not my brain.

“Software,” Peter says. “We think. We’re pretty sure. We need you to look at it.”

The cup is filling, and the smell of coffee masks the smell of my ex-husband. “You think? Jesus, Pete, why don’t you go get a few hours’ sleep? I’ll get some breakfast and head over to the trailer. Is Hinson there?”

“Hell no. We told the professor everything was fine and sent him home. Me and Greenie have been up all night trying to sort this out. We were going to come get you hours ago—”

I shoot Peter a look.

“Exactly. I told Greenie about the Wrath and said we had to wait at least until the sun came up.” He smiles at me. “But seriously, Sam, this is some wild shit.”

I pull the half-full Styrofoam cup out from under the basket. Coffee continues to drip to the hot plate, where it hisses like a snake. The Wrath is what Peter named my mood before eight in the morning. Our marriage might’ve survived if we’d only had to do afternoons.

“Wait outside, and I’ll get dressed,” I tell him. A sip of shitty coffee. The little coffeemaker warns me about pulling the cup out before the light turns green. I give the machine the finger while Peter closes the door behind him. The smell of his sweat lingers in the air around me for a moment, and then it’s gone. An image of our old garage barges into my brain, unannounced. Peter and I are celebrating Max’s first untethered bipedal walk. I swear to God, it’s as joyous a day as when our Sarah stumbled across the carpet for the first time. Must be the smell of sweat and solder bringing that memory back. Just a glitch. We get them too.