Three quickly-written stories that capture feelings I have about AI
1. The Light
In the future, a blue beam from outer space is fired and hits the earth exactly in one particular city. Other than being a brilliant shade of bright blue, neon, it has no impact. No crater. Absolutely no sound. Nothing burns. Initial fears that this is a kind of shrinking ray, that it causes cancer, that it was sent from an enemy alien civilisation, subside. The anxiety of those in the city subsides, in favour of studying what the light actually does.
Those who stand in the light notice little. They go about their days, their months, basically as usual. Well, this isn't quite right — they are pummelled, in a certain sense, by the pace of things changing in their city. None of this was unusual before. There was always some new phenomena, some news story breaking about how the world was going to end. In fact, the people who loved this had often moved in here. But recently, it really does seem as if things have taken a turn for the weird. New businesses are flying up and shutting down faster than ever. New laboratories are being built in the old carparks and in the old stables. New materials come out of those laboratories, materials with interesting properties that snatch the headlines for a day or so and all have uninteresting names. New products are on the shelves within a matter of weeks, with attractive new properties. Businesses go under new management. They put up new buildings. The world is turning. Ever more quickly it turns.
But those in the light notice nothing, for the most part. There is only the turbulence and the slightly blinding brilliance of the blue. They notice nothing, that is, until they step outside.
Stepping out of the light, one realises something immediately. The lack of the blue leaves things darker, more shadowy. There are weeds growing in the sidewalk and people in the shadows, weird businesses functioning in old languages, opaque transactions, curious symbols, a sense of running and fear. Distrust and disinterest in the people of the blue.
At first, one imagines that this world is deeply old. Look at all the property — businesses run for generations! Look at all the social norms — built up over centuries! Here are monarchies, and histories, and mythologies, macrosocial creatures fashioned by evolution into wonderful freakish formations. Their cultures are quaint, their science unscientific. Their weapons are primitive and their strategy dull.
They look on at the blue light, these people outside it, and squint cluelessly. They cannot penetrate its blueness, its logic. But they know that they have lived here for a long time. They understand that it is not them who have been changed.
Looking at the light reflected in their retinas, it is clear what the light is, though none outside the city know the words.
It is a tractor beam towards futurity. The city is being pulled into the future.
2. The Hands
All over the town, small gloved hands begin to appear. Their dimensions are not troubling — small hands, about the size of a child's, completely gloved in white. Wrapped up in little cotton gloves. Meticulously clean.
They float through the air in clouds, like great big flocks of pollen.
They drift at night through the city streets and land on the tables and the chairs outside the restaurants, and on the windowpanes, and they cluster in the bell tower and catch in the rooftrees. They are blown without logic amongst the gardens and the gables, the bookshops and the cheese shops. Some appear directly in the wardrobes. Some fall into wells.
In the morning, they get to work. The townfolk are at first confused and indifferent to them. What are these strange hands, they ask, that copy me when I go out to fold my laundry? What are these hands that mimic me when I put away the books? Do they mock me, or threaten me, when they play at picking up and putting down the rooftiles that I fix atop my roof?
But the hands do not harm anyone, and so they stay around.
Over time, the hands learn.
The hands get more dextrous. They learn how to fasten a rooftile, and the roofer watches them satisfied as they flock across the roofs, paving and repaving his months' work. They learn how to put away a book on a shelf, and the bookseller watches them with awe as they reorganise his books, turning the whole store into a swirling storm of knowledge. And the homemakers are joyous, and envious all the maids, as the hands turn the laundry around in a day and sweep the houses sparklingly clean.
Over time, the hands grow up.
At first, they appear as a set of muscular arms. They sometimes float and sometimes walk straight down the road. They wave towards the children at the bus stop and the traffic controller has given them all names. They hold doors open for the women and the women tell their husbands, why can't you be like that man? They'll flag a taxi or hold up a ladder, or do quite whatever your handyman does.
The women are thrilled by them. The maids and the men are somewhat annoyed.
And then, as before, the arms grow up.
This time, there are torsos, with full grown human legs. They are like a man's body, now; not strong, one would say, but sufficiently sturdy. They walk down the road and call out casually as they let themselves into the church to do the painting, or the refurbishment. They run most of the market stalls, where the humans trust to deal with them; and who wouldn't trust a headless man, for he cannot be out for himself!
The bishop and the business owners are thrilled by them. But the women are spooked, and the men are upset. The maids are nowhere to be seen.
And then, as before, the bodies keep growing.
Didn't you say that they couldn't keep growing? The wife says to her husband and kids as they run. Nobody knew what they were or where they'd come from, the lawyer called out to his wife as they packed. Didn't the bookseller have something on them, the schoolteacher wonders as he rides through the night. Has anyone seen that goddamn old roof maker? The clergyman cries as the church falls apart.
Over a few days the church is deserted. The bookshop is empty and the schools are all closed.
Only the priest still remains there, alone in his church. He prays to the lord that his prayers are heard. That night, at a quarter to midnight, he hears a knocking. Not at the door, but at the roof. He looks up. There is a silence, then a wrenching, as a white hand takes off the roof. He looks up at the great spotless glove, reaching out of the blackness. He finishes his prayers and lifts up his hands to the hand.
In the morning, there's no town there, no school and no church. All that remains is the crater of a thumb in the earth.
3. The Bear
That, Ruben said, is not a bear.
It was a little like a cave, he thought. Matted with moss, or a sort of black hair. Admittedly the smell it gave off was slightly rancid or meaty. When he threw a small rock at it, it gave out a thud.
He threw another at it, landing somewhere in the centre. Instead of a thud, it gave out a chink.
The cave pulled back its face to reveal a smile of perfect, white teeth.
Ruben yelled out. Greg was behind him, already running. Patrice was somewhere over the hill. He took two steps backwards, and like an oaf, stumbled, collapsing over the root of an old oak tree. Greg's footsteps cleared the hill and were gone.
He turned around, paralysed, as the mouth opened up.
Out of the mouth came a figure like a person. They were suited head to toe in a mass of black fur. The fur was ill-fitting, and sagged on the body. In places there were gashes, as if it had been slashed.
The person — who was attached to the mouth by a sort of umbilical cord of red — took a few steps out, looked around, and knelt down. It reached out a shaggy black hand, and lifted up a handful of earth. It closed its fur around the earth and let the dried leaves tumble through.
Then it straightened up, and stretched right back, and pulled itself in half. Out of the empty suit came a body.
The boy was about Ruben's age, maybe slightly younger. He was wearing blue dinosaur pyjamas, and had slightly tousled hair.
He walked across the ground to Ruben, his feet scarcely touching the ground.
Wait wait wait wait Ruben was saying. The boy stopped, and looked curiously at him.
Well, said Ruben. He hadn't quite expected this. What are you, for a start.
The boy smiled. He pulled his face back, and his teeth were identical to the cave's. Then he carried on walking.
Ruben shut his eyes and winced for a second. But nothing happened. The boy had walked straight past him, up and over the hill. The bear suit had been pulled back, too, and retracted into the cave mouth, which now seemed quite obviously to be a boulder covered with moss.
He stood up, and shook his eyes, and walked back to the city.
In the city, the parents were up in arms. Where have you been! They were yelling at Patrice. Don't you know never to go into the forest, where anything might come out? Don't you know that if you mess around with the spirits you might come up with something that cannot be unlearned?
Patrice was apologising. Greg was eating a muffin, still out of breath. When he saw Ruben, he walked over to him.
I couldn't do it. I'm sorry. He looked genuinely abashed. I've got to know, though. How did you manage to save the boy?
What boy?
Greg looked confused. Right at that moment, the parents caught sight of Ruben.
Now! They said. This is the hero! This is the guy who made everything right!
If you hadn't — they were saying. So much intelligence — they were pushing him. So much bravery — up and onto the podium.
If you hadn't saved this child, the village leader said. I can't tell you how angry we'd be.
Ruben looked at the child by his side. The dinosaur pyjamas. The boy cutely smiled.
Let us all give a hand to Ruben, the village leader cried out, for bringing this child back to us — the child, AI!
Three quickly-written stories that capture feelings I have about AI
1. The Light
In the future, a blue beam from outer space is fired and hits the earth exactly in one particular city. Other than being a brilliant shade of bright blue, neon, it has no impact. No crater. Absolutely no sound. Nothing burns. Initial fears that this is a kind of shrinking ray, that it causes cancer, that it was sent from an enemy alien civilisation, subside. The anxiety of those in the city subsides, in favour of studying what the light actually does.
Those who stand in the light notice little. They go about their days, their months, basically as usual. Well, this isn't quite right — they are pummelled, in a certain sense, by the pace of things changing in their city. None of this was unusual before. There was always some new phenomena, some news story breaking about how the world was going to end. In fact, the people who loved this had often moved in here. But recently, it really does seem as if things have taken a turn for the weird. New businesses are flying up and shutting down faster than ever. New laboratories are being built in the old carparks and in the old stables. New materials come out of those laboratories, materials with interesting properties that snatch the headlines for a day or so and all have uninteresting names. New products are on the shelves within a matter of weeks, with attractive new properties. Businesses go under new management. They put up new buildings. The world is turning. Ever more quickly it turns.
But those in the light notice nothing, for the most part. There is only the turbulence and the slightly blinding brilliance of the blue. They notice nothing, that is, until they step outside.
Stepping out of the light, one realises something immediately. The lack of the blue leaves things darker, more shadowy. There are weeds growing in the sidewalk and people in the shadows, weird businesses functioning in old languages, opaque transactions, curious symbols, a sense of running and fear. Distrust and disinterest in the people of the blue.
At first, one imagines that this world is deeply old. Look at all the property — businesses run for generations! Look at all the social norms — built up over centuries! Here are monarchies, and histories, and mythologies, macrosocial creatures fashioned by evolution into wonderful freakish formations. Their cultures are quaint, their science unscientific. Their weapons are primitive and their strategy dull.
They look on at the blue light, these people outside it, and squint cluelessly. They cannot penetrate its blueness, its logic. But they know that they have lived here for a long time. They understand that it is not them who have been changed.
Looking at the light reflected in their retinas, it is clear what the light is, though none outside the city know the words.
It is a tractor beam towards futurity. The city is being pulled into the future.
2. The Hands
All over the town, small gloved hands begin to appear. Their dimensions are not troubling — small hands, about the size of a child's, completely gloved in white. Wrapped up in little cotton gloves. Meticulously clean.
They float through the air in clouds, like great big flocks of pollen.
They drift at night through the city streets and land on the tables and the chairs outside the restaurants, and on the windowpanes, and they cluster in the bell tower and catch in the rooftrees. They are blown without logic amongst the gardens and the gables, the bookshops and the cheese shops. Some appear directly in the wardrobes. Some fall into wells.
In the morning, they get to work. The townfolk are at first confused and indifferent to them. What are these strange hands, they ask, that copy me when I go out to fold my laundry? What are these hands that mimic me when I put away the books? Do they mock me, or threaten me, when they play at picking up and putting down the rooftiles that I fix atop my roof?
But the hands do not harm anyone, and so they stay around.
Over time, the hands learn.
The hands get more dextrous. They learn how to fasten a rooftile, and the roofer watches them satisfied as they flock across the roofs, paving and repaving his months' work. They learn how to put away a book on a shelf, and the bookseller watches them with awe as they reorganise his books, turning the whole store into a swirling storm of knowledge. And the homemakers are joyous, and envious all the maids, as the hands turn the laundry around in a day and sweep the houses sparklingly clean.
Over time, the hands grow up.
At first, they appear as a set of muscular arms. They sometimes float and sometimes walk straight down the road. They wave towards the children at the bus stop and the traffic controller has given them all names. They hold doors open for the women and the women tell their husbands, why can't you be like that man? They'll flag a taxi or hold up a ladder, or do quite whatever your handyman does.
The women are thrilled by them. The maids and the men are somewhat annoyed.
And then, as before, the arms grow up.
This time, there are torsos, with full grown human legs. They are like a man's body, now; not strong, one would say, but sufficiently sturdy. They walk down the road and call out casually as they let themselves into the church to do the painting, or the refurbishment. They run most of the market stalls, where the humans trust to deal with them; and who wouldn't trust a headless man, for he cannot be out for himself!
The bishop and the business owners are thrilled by them. But the women are spooked, and the men are upset. The maids are nowhere to be seen.
And then, as before, the bodies keep growing.
Didn't you say that they couldn't keep growing? The wife says to her husband and kids as they run. Nobody knew what they were or where they'd come from, the lawyer called out to his wife as they packed. Didn't the bookseller have something on them, the schoolteacher wonders as he rides through the night. Has anyone seen that goddamn old roof maker? The clergyman cries as the church falls apart.
Over a few days the church is deserted. The bookshop is empty and the schools are all closed.
Only the priest still remains there, alone in his church. He prays to the lord that his prayers are heard. That night, at a quarter to midnight, he hears a knocking. Not at the door, but at the roof. He looks up. There is a silence, then a wrenching, as a white hand takes off the roof. He looks up at the great spotless glove, reaching out of the blackness. He finishes his prayers and lifts up his hands to the hand.
In the morning, there's no town there, no school and no church. All that remains is the crater of a thumb in the earth.
3. The Bear
That, Ruben said, is not a bear.
It was a little like a cave, he thought. Matted with moss, or a sort of black hair. Admittedly the smell it gave off was slightly rancid or meaty. When he threw a small rock at it, it gave out a thud.
He threw another at it, landing somewhere in the centre. Instead of a thud, it gave out a chink.
The cave pulled back its face to reveal a smile of perfect, white teeth.
Ruben yelled out. Greg was behind him, already running. Patrice was somewhere over the hill. He took two steps backwards, and like an oaf, stumbled, collapsing over the root of an old oak tree. Greg's footsteps cleared the hill and were gone.
He turned around, paralysed, as the mouth opened up.
Out of the mouth came a figure like a person. They were suited head to toe in a mass of black fur. The fur was ill-fitting, and sagged on the body. In places there were gashes, as if it had been slashed.
The person — who was attached to the mouth by a sort of umbilical cord of red — took a few steps out, looked around, and knelt down. It reached out a shaggy black hand, and lifted up a handful of earth. It closed its fur around the earth and let the dried leaves tumble through.
Then it straightened up, and stretched right back, and pulled itself in half. Out of the empty suit came a body.
The boy was about Ruben's age, maybe slightly younger. He was wearing blue dinosaur pyjamas, and had slightly tousled hair.
He walked across the ground to Ruben, his feet scarcely touching the ground.
Wait wait wait wait Ruben was saying. The boy stopped, and looked curiously at him.
Well, said Ruben. He hadn't quite expected this. What are you, for a start.
The boy smiled. He pulled his face back, and his teeth were identical to the cave's. Then he carried on walking.
Ruben shut his eyes and winced for a second. But nothing happened. The boy had walked straight past him, up and over the hill. The bear suit had been pulled back, too, and retracted into the cave mouth, which now seemed quite obviously to be a boulder covered with moss.
He stood up, and shook his eyes, and walked back to the city.
In the city, the parents were up in arms. Where have you been! They were yelling at Patrice. Don't you know never to go into the forest, where anything might come out? Don't you know that if you mess around with the spirits you might come up with something that cannot be unlearned?
Patrice was apologising. Greg was eating a muffin, still out of breath. When he saw Ruben, he walked over to him.
I couldn't do it. I'm sorry. He looked genuinely abashed. I've got to know, though. How did you manage to save the boy?
What boy?
Greg looked confused. Right at that moment, the parents caught sight of Ruben.
Now! They said. This is the hero! This is the guy who made everything right!
If you hadn't — they were saying. So much intelligence — they were pushing him. So much bravery — up and onto the podium.
If you hadn't saved this child, the village leader said. I can't tell you how angry we'd be.
Ruben looked at the child by his side. The dinosaur pyjamas. The boy cutely smiled.
Let us all give a hand to Ruben, the village leader cried out, for bringing this child back to us — the child, AI!