0110
And the pirates like this:
1110
Binary numbers. Specifically, the eyes represented the binary equivalent of six, and the pirates represented the binary equivalent of fourteen.
The numbers meant nothing special to Heather.
And nor had they at first to Josh. But while Heather was bunched up inside a hypercube, Josh had had access to the library in the telescope building in Algonquin Park, and the very first book he’d opened—The Chemical Rubber Company Handbook of Chemistry and Physics—had the periodic table printed inside its front cover.
Of course. Atomic numbers. Six was carbon.
And fourteen—
Fourteen was silicon.
It had hit Josh in a flash. Heather wasn’t sure whether the shock she felt was all her own or some of his, too—a ghostly echo.
The first panel showed carbons going about their business.
The second, the advent of silicons.
The third, the silicons completely surrounding the carbons.
And the fourth, a world with only silicons left.
It couldn’t be plainer: biological life, based on carbon, being supplanted by silicon-based artificial intelligence.
Heather searched Josh’s mind for the identity of the star the message had come from.
Epsilon Eridani.
A star that had been listened to countless times by SETI projects. A star from which no radio signal had ever again been detected.
Like humanity, whatever civilization had existed around Epsilon Eridani had preferred to listen rather than to broadcast. But one message—a final warning—had been sent by someone from there, before it had been too late.
Heather, Kyle, and Becky met for lunch that day at The Water Hole, which was filled mostly with tourists, this being a Sunday afternoon. Heather told them what she’d plucked from Josh Huneker’s dead mind.
Kyle exhaled noisily and put down his fork.
“Natives,” he said. “Like Native Canadians.”
Heather and Becky looked at him quizzically.
“Or Native Americans—or Australian aborigines. Or even Neanderthals—my friend Stone was telling me about them. Over and over again, those who are there first are supplanted—totally and completely supplanted—by those who come later. The new never incorporates the old—it replaces the old.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how many papers I’ve heard at AI conferences suggesting that computer-based life forms would look after us, would work in tandem with us, would uplift us. But why would they? Once they’ve surpassed us, what would they need us for?” He paused. “The people at Epsilon Eridani found out the hard way, I guess.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Becky.
“I dunno. There was this guy—a banker named Cash—who wanted to bury the research I was doing in quantum computing. Maybe I should have let him. If true consciousness is possible only through a quantum-mechanical element, then maybe we should give up our experiments in quantum computing.”
“You can’t put the genie back in the bottle,” said Becky.
“No? It’s been over a decade since anyone anywhere exploded a nuclear bomb—which at least in part is because of the efforts of people who continued Josh’s work in Greenpeace. People like that believe you can put the genie back.”
Heather nodded. “For a computer scientist, you make a pretty good psychologist.”
“Hey, I didn’t spend a quarter-century with you for nothing.” He paused. “Josh killed himself in nineteen ninety-four. Roger Penrose’s second book on the quantum nature of consciousness was available, and Shor had just published his algorithm for allowing a hypothetical quantum computer to factor very large numbers. You said Josh loved to talk about the future; maybe he saw the relationship between quantum computing and quantum consciousness before anyone else did. But I bet he also knew that humanity never heeds warnings about things that won’t show their dangerous consequences for years—if we did, there never would have been an ecological crisis for Josh to be up in arms about. No, I’m sure Josh thought he was making certain the message got out just when we would most need to hear it. In fact, I bet he was naïve enough to think that the government wouldn’t hush up an undecoded message. Indeed, he probably suspected it would be the first thing ever decrypted by a quantum computer, in a big public demonstration. What a show it would have made! Just at the point at which humanity would be getting close to the breakthrough that would allow true artificial intelligence, the message from the stars would be unveiled, plain as day, big as life itself: Don’t do it.”
Heather frowned slightly.
Kyle went on. “It was the perfect scenario for a fan of Alan Turing. Not only was encrypting the alien message the kind of thing Turing himself might have enjoyed doing—he cracked the Nazis’ Enigma machine, you know—but the Turing test reinforces what the beings on Epsilon Eridani were trying to get across. Turing’s definition of artificial intelligence demands that thinking computers have all the same failings and pettinesses that real, live, flesh-and-blood life forms are prone to; otherwise, their responses would be easy to distinguish from those made by a real human.”
Heather thought for a moment. “What are you going to tell Cheetah?”
Kyle considered. “The truth. I think that down deep—if any part of Cheetah can be said to be down deep—he knew anyway. ‘Intruders,’ he said, ‘is the perfect word.’ ” Kyle shook his head. “Computers might develop consciousness—but never conscience.” He thought of the beggars on Queen Street. “At least, not any more conscience than we ever did.”
36
After lunch, Heather headed back across campus to continue her work in her construct. Meanwhile, Kyle and Becky told Cheetah what Heather had learned about the Huneker message. The APE was as phlegmatic as always.
Becky had been using the large construct just before lunch, so it was now Kyle’s turn again. He left Cheetah running while, with his daughter’s help, he got back into the construct to deal with a final outstanding issue in psychospace.
Kyle had had it all planned out in his mind—every detail of how it would go down. He’d wait in the alley off Lawrence Avenue West; he’d driven by the building enough times now to know its external layout well. He knew that Lydia Gurdjieff worked until nine or so each evening. He’d wait for her to leave the old converted house and start down the alley on its east side. And then Kyle would step from the shadows.
“Ms. Gurdjieff?” he’d say.
Gurdjieff would look up, startled. “Yes?”
“Lydia Gurdjieff?” Kyle would repeat, as if there could be any doubt.
“That’s me.”
“My name is Kyle Graves. I’m Mary and Becky’s father.”
Gurdjieff would start to back away. “Leave me alone,” she’d say. “I’ll call the police.”
“By all means, please do so,” Kyle would reply. “And even though you’re not licensed, let’s get the Ontario Psychiatric Association and the Ontario Medical Board down here, too.”
Gurdjieff would continue to back away. She’d look over her shoulder and see another figure silhouetted at the end of the alley.
Kyle would keep his eyes on Gurdjieff. “That’s my wife Heather,” he’d say offhandedly. “I think perhaps you’ve met her once before.”
“M-Miss Davis?” Gurdjieff would stammer, if she could recall the name and face of the one time they’d met before. Then: “I’ve got a rape whistle.”
Kyle would nod, almost nonchalantly. He’d keep his voice absolutely even. “And no doubt you’d be willing to use it even when no rape was occurring.”