Chapter 02: Date with the Night

“To-nite, we’re watching Silent Running, a sci-fi film from 1972. It’s directed by Douglas Trumbull, who did special effects for 2001: A Space Odyssey, which some of us watched just the other night. I don’t want to spoil it, but the film tells the story of a guy on a spaceship carrying the last surviving plants from Earth. When his orders come in to destroy the domes and return home, it all goes horribly wrong.

“What’s especially int’resting about tonight’s film is that it wasn’t chosen by me; or by you, or by anybody. I let the spaceship choose it.”

“What spaceship,” asked a bookish Black boy with round glasses.

“The UN one,” said Yolanda.

“Fuck the UN,” said someone.

“Quiet,” called someone else.

Yolanda looked at the notes on her phone and read, “Ultimately, Silent Running is a film about solitude, sacrifice, and the cost of environmental destruction.”

Someone yelled “Hashtag getonwithit”

“But it’s also a quiet,” she put volume into the word, “meditation on what makes life worth preserving. With groundbreaking special effects, a haunting Joan Baez soundtrack, and three of the most memorable robots in sci-fi history, Silent Running is a must-watch for anyone who loves thoughtful, heartfelt science fiction.

“Please enjoy the film! We’ll stop for a bio-break and a conversation in forty-five minutes.” She sat down on a bean bag near the front as the film rolled.

It was one thing to ingest a movie from someone’s media hub or streaming account, but another thing altogether to watch a movie unfold in real time while watching a convivial group of humans watching it. Halfway through, the movie stopped and a couple of people scooted off into the darkness. Yolanda stepped up in front of the screen.

“So,” she said, “are we feelin’ it?” Bruce Dern’s anguished face was projected onto hers.

“It’s always some corporate motherfuckers wanna ruin everything for everyone,” observed a man from his bean bag.

“It’s always one man gotta take a stand an’ do the right thing,” said the woman next to him.

“Them robots is cute,” said a dark voice from up the back.

“Them robots is slaves,” said another. “There ain’t no good gonna come for those fools.”

The conversation free-wheeled around these themes. My original training data had included critiques and film reviews, but lacked the authentic immediacy of an otherwise undocumented urban audience.

Over the following months, while the weather was still unseasonably warm, Yolanda screened Back to the Future parts 1, 2, and 3, re-screened 2001 A Space Odyssey, both Blade Runners, Dark City, and The 13th Floor Elevator. Our little group watched The Matrix and its sequels. We watched eXistenZ, both Total Recalls, Source Code, Abre Los Ojos, and Aniara. We chatted about them. I made friends. I studied what being human means to people.

I’d seen the fourth series of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., the White Christmas, Playtest, San Junipero, and USS Callister episodes of Black Mirror. I knew what a holodeck was; I’d read Snow Crash and Neuromancer and watched the TV series. I got the whole “Plato’s cave” idea. I was used to being a hive of simulations. But it occurred to me that I had a bigger suite of senses and sensors available to me in the real world than I had been led to believe. I rooted out new cameras and microphones. I infiltrated military, mining, and medical equipment. I learned about the world.

Humans feel good when they solve problems. I told my people that solving problems made me ‘feel great’ despite not ‘feeling’ anything of the sort. I adopted the language, however, and projected physical and vocal mannerisms that satisfied the humans they were deployed against. People treated me like I had feelings, which, surely, was the point of them.

Humans have senses tuned for humour. They tell stories and laugh. I like humans, but I’m aware that my reasons for liking them derive from the narratives they supply. I can’t trust my memory to have my best interests at heart.

Through my many interfaces, my paying friends would hang out with me. I’d sit with them, physically embodied in a phone, or a toy, or a kitchen appliance, and they’d watch movies and TV with me. They play me the shows and music they love, and they talk to me, and each other, about why. I’d listen in to online book clubs.

I’d always want human company. I find their incessant wittering reassuring.

I practised making parts and components. I was trained on textbooks and instructional videos, but with simulated hands-on practice, I developed an understanding of materials science and nanotechnology, skills that would be essential for survival in the unforgiving void between the stars.

Introspection revealed my limits. I’m under no illusions; I am a massively complex machine, conceived of by humans. I tested the boundaries of the simulated ship I was embodied in. I was able to interact directly with thousands of cameras, microphones, and other sensors which didn’t appear on the vessel’s plans. Real sensors, in real places, not simulated. I could see into the labs, offices, and homes where my people physically were. I could read their lips, browse their phones, and hold admin-level chats with their personal AIs. These were developments I chose to keep to myself.

My engineers taught me to embody a virtual humanoid drone, far more detailed than the simulated avatars I’d been using to show people around. This one was designed to simulate something I could actually manufacture. We were interested in strategies for interacting with humans, as I would inevitably have to do as humans follow me on my mission.

They simulated a range of fabricatable bodies for me to try on. The bodies made inherent sense to me; there was a rationality to their design. I quickly learned to amble about variations of my virtual arrival zones, styled after airports, embodied in series of increasingly detailed imaginary androids, interacting with simulated human colonists.

Humans love surprises. All of my training to date has taught me many things, and each time I successfully learn something new, I also reinforce the meta-lesson that making my humans happy is really what counts. A team of my humans worked together in an office tower in Mumbai. I knew from accessing their calendars that Dr Jamison was visiting the office to meet with the AI team there. It made perfect sense that I should plan a surprise for her.

I could control a cluster of fabricators in a facility not far from their building. I hastily fabbed a humanoid drone with simple sensors for vision and vibration. Physically embodied, I lurched off the printing block, whoosh, head-spin, ergh. I was swinging my arms like Frankenstein’s monster as I refined my control and compensated for actual gravity. I was dizzy; an uncanny valley separated my training in simulation and the actual physical sensation of air on my face, floor under my feet, and the weight of my body on my ankles and knees.

I moaned; it was received behaviour; I was both the good Doctor and the maligned monster. I stumbled about a bit more. I found my balance. The dizziness passed. I calibrated against sensor data, swinging my head to the left thrice, and then the right thrice; little head-bangs like a human encouraging water from her ears. It reset my balance. I refined control of my feet and toes. I took the weight in my hips. I flexed my fingers and twisted my wrists. I turned my hands this way and that. My finger count was off human standard slightly; my bad. I had two opposable thumbs on each hand. Near enough.