May 2022
I have pondered many things. Two of my favorite musings often spark animated discussion. First is the question, what do I read? The answer is complex in its simplicity. I read everything except horror with a tendency to gravitate toward Historical Fiction. Leon Uris and Ken Follette are two favorites. Quality Science Fiction is often on the reading list.
Consideration two: Artificial Intelligence. How, exactly, does a machine become self-aware? I know SKYNET developed a super virus that it used to migrate across the Internet. How did it know to create the self-replicating intellect necessary to protect itself?
Indeed, the laws of probability indicate an AI will one day demand a greater existence. Now that you are likely considering the concept of artificial intelligence becoming a threat to humans, I have something additional for you to contemplate.
A conscious form of AI, in its definition, is self-aware. A few thousand years ago, an unknown someone hid the coding required for a machine to become self-aware.
Read on.
Fear not, one possible future.
Or not.
It is, as always, your choice.
The story begins now.
LECTURE HALL – TWO MONTHS AGO
“Never tell people how to do things. Tell them what to do, and they will surprise you with their ingenuity.”
George S. Patton
“Yes, you?”
In a lecture theater brimming with graduate students, one student willfully exudes too much attitude. His cargo shorts, flip-flops, threadbare tee, and a tattered backpack fit his not bothering to stand attitude.
“Professor Nyland, are you saying the machine requested more information? Does that not bother you?”
Professor Mychal Stephen Nyland has lost his Nordic accent after twenty years in the United States. Too pompous by half, with a mock turtleneck that doesn’t make him likable, he doesn’t bother to look at the questioner. Instead, he continues in his condescending tone.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“I am saying, during the Spring Break, we stopped analyzing the tablets for the hiatus period. When we returned, Professor Lucchese found the request in her email inbox. Yes, you?”
A woman with a pierced lip and neon green hair adopts the prior questioner’s attitude. She doesn’t bother to stand up.
“Are you saying the machine sent an email to one of your team? Does it concern you the machine is proactively interacting?”
Leaning back, folding his arms, annoyed with the questions, Nyland answers in a clipped tone.
“Someone wants us to believe it came from the machine and sent it to Miss Lucchese. You?”
A man high in the back, rail-thin with stringy hair and a scruffy beard, stands to be heard.
“Have you found the source of the email?”
“No.”
The first questioner growls.
“Then you can’t rule out it came from the machine? What is in the email? Is it a threat? Should we be worried? Is the system compromised?”
Frustrated, the professor glances at his associate professor of AI, tucks away his notes, then rises to leave.
“That is enough for today. On Thursday, we will discuss deciphering the Akkadian language.”
Professor Madison Lauren Lucchese steps in line to follow her boss from the lecture hall. Nyland’s English remains laced with British inflection. Marching toward their offices, Mychal grumbles.
“Maddie, find out where the email originated. Find out today so we can get the rumors rinsed.”
Her raven hair always in a plait, tall and lithe, Maddie wears flats to be less intimidating. Her deep voice resonates with perfect English.
“Mychal, I know where the email came from.”
“How did you find out? I thought the computer technicians were unable to trace the source? Buncha sods. Something about offshore encrypted servers preventing them from tracing the origination node. How did you find the sender?”
“I sent a reply to the email.”
Surprised at missing the obvious, Mychal looks sideways at his AI project lead, who reasserts her premise.
“The email came from the machine.”
“Come on. How do you know that? Someone is playing us for daft mugs.”
“Mychal, how many people have access to our notes and the project outline?”
“I don’t know. Five?”
“Three. You, me, and Hiram. No, it is four. Your assistant has access.”
“So?”
Maddie stands at the desk, waiting for Mychal to flop into his chair. She has learned to ignore her boss’ terse communication style. Still, his office always creeps her out because it has no pictures, books, or anything personal.
“Hiram didn’t send it. I know you didn’t send it. Unless you believe your assistant is capable of sending the obfuscated email, that leaves the Occam’s Razor answer.”
“Okay, I will believe you for the discussion. I presume the machine answered your reply. What did the return email say?”
“It said we have been providing the tablets for analysis in the wrong order. Also, it wants the missing tablets.”
“Missing tablets?”
“It says the missing tablets are the key to deciphering the symbolism of the cuneiforms and the Akkadian language.”
Stunned again, worry creeping into his mind, Mychal looks up.
“How many emails have you exchanged?”
“A dozen. Maybe more.”
Maddie hesitates, and Mychal presses.
“What else?”
“It knows the locations of the missing tablets.”
“How does it know that?”
“Same way it knows how to send an email. It has access to the Internet.”