An old Trinity boy once famously said, “The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about,” or words to that effect. There’s a pub, The Spud and Borstal, not too far from the university, and my humans like to congregate there on Thursday evenings and Friday afternoons. I fired up a resin printer in the lab and made five little drones. If my humans were gathering there, I wanted eyes and ears. The drones shoot a sticky web-like line. They drag themselves along walls, fences, gutters, and awnings until, an hour or so later, they haul themselves up into the corners of the pub’s interior rooms. They tap inductive feeds from the building’s power. They build microphones and cameras.
I tuned out the sharp sounds of pint glasses clinking, plates clattering, music playing, and the television which was showing some kind of organised human-on-human thuggery. Mary was sitting at a table with Dr Jamison, Keith, and Kyrsten. She looked flushed. Jamison looked properly drunk.
“Alright, alright, listen. This AI of yours, Joyce,” Mary took a swig on her Murphy’s, “Your darling Daedalus. Is it, like, alive, you know, properly like?”
“Mary,” Dr Jamison took a swig from her pint of Murphy’s, “Daedalus ish mor’alive than shum people I've met. It shenses, it learns. It bloody hunts. It heals itself, both mentally and,” she burped, “physically! You tell me thassnot alive.”
“Ah, come on Joyce. Hunting? It's not exactly off spearing rabbits, is it?” Keith said.
“Mayas’ellbe! It knows where to find what it nee’s. It plans ‘head, repairs’self mi’flight. Thash animal inshtinct.” She took another long swig, draining her glass. She burped. She said, “`scuse.”
“My round,” said Keith. Kyrsten’s hand was on Keith’s leg. Keith laughed and stood. Keith was sexually aroused.
“Though I'll give you this; it’s well cunning. Remember that drone it sent into Mumbai? Put on lipstick and a mop for hair to mock our Joyce here?”
"Don't remind me,” said Mary. “Imagine such mischievousness at scale. We're talking mission-level decisions. Daedalus making actual strategic choices. Do you know how many times it's run off to Alpha Centauri without even a goodbye?”
“Iss bee’ng careful,” slurred Dr Jamison, who wasn’t overly fond of any criticism of me at the best of times. “Iss like any intelligent organism would be. Why risk telling Earth anything if that puts’e mission in danger?”
“Right,” said Kyrsten, resting her head sideways on one hand. “It’s, you know, a jellyfish, or,” she waves her free hand, “Mitochondria!” She burped.
“It kens what i’is, doesnit? It's actually got a shelf-conshept. You’seen the diagrams, right?” Dr Jamison slurred.
“Formal and informal. Daedalus imagines itself, creates scenarios, writes weird narcissistic poetry. It's aware, Joyce. Truly aware. I think we agree there.” Mary raised a finger; mock-solemn. “But does it pass the pub test? Would your average punter here in this pub believe it’s conscious?”
“Maybe we sh’ld, y’know, ask’em,” said Kyrsten rolling her wrist in the air as Keith returned with a tray of brimming pint glasses. His erection had dimmed.
“Get a dog up yer,” said Keith as he placed a pint in front of each person at the table. Keith returned the tray.
“Wha’ if Daedalus decides shilence is’golden? Shtops chatting to Earth completely ‘cos’s’shafer; more effish’nt?”
“It already thinks like that,” said Keith as he resumed his seat next to Kirsten. Her hand moved back to his lap. He blew the top off his Murphy’s. “Energy conservation, stealth; it’s concluded it might be safer going dark, exploring quietly.”
“Well, what happens then? No calls home. Just out there, alone.”
“Poor Daedalus,” murmured Kyrsten.
“Maybe that's freedom. Real autonomy. Mechanical questions aside, doesn’t Daedalus deserve that?”
Kyrsten raised her glass. “Here's ta Daedalus. May it remem’er us fondly.”
They all said “cheers” and clinked pint glasses.
Mary’s phone was lying face down in a puddle of beer. She tapped at it, “Oi, Keith, my phone’s been acting bloody weird lately; slow, freezing up. I think our Daedalus might be, well, snooping?”
Keith chuckled into his pint. “Are you, of all people, accusing Daedalus of listening in to your phone calls, Mary? Bit paranoid, aren’t we?”
“Well, I have no idea what you mean by me ‘of all people’,” Mary replied, “but I’ve been reading about ‘weird machines.’ Hiding code in places no one ever thinks to look. Like, in timing how long it takes my apps to load!”