Society of the Mind

Laura tried to picture the two robots meeting on that dark world. The space-faring Model Seven would never have seen a Model Eight before. 'And the two robots are working well together?' Laura asked.

'Sure,' Gray said, tossing his napkin on the counter. 'Why wouldn't they?' Laura shrugged. He rose to his feet and said, 'Well, I've got to be getting to work.'

'Like to share a taxi?' Laura asked with a smile.

'I'll call your car.'

It was a meaningless slight, but it spoiled the good mood with which Laura had started the day.

Laura decided to take it easy, and sat on her windy bedroom balcony. The two warships slowly circled the island like Indian warriors in some old western. A brand-new portable computer sat in her lap. The one she'd left on the roof of the computer center still worked, but the plastic had turned an unsightly brown.

'I understand you're feeling a little better?' Laura typed.

<A little, thanks. Mr. Gray is having crews pull glass from the computer center to the annex. Don't tell the Other, but I'm planning a counterattack through those optical cables to take some of my functions back. You'd better stay away from the computer center today.>

The warning chilled Laura. 'Is it going to be dangerous?'

<No! It's just very muddy from all the trenching they're doing.>

Laura laughed at her melodramatic overreaction. 'Okay, let's get right to it. How do you define a 'self?''

<A self is a finite, unique soul or essence that constitutes a sentient being's identity.>

'That's a school definition. What's your definition?'

<A self is an imaginary entity manufactured for the preservation of the self's host.>

Laura read and reread the response. She pulled out her pad and wrote down the response word for word. 'So its function is solely for 'self-preservation'?'

<Yes. All of an organism's purported higher purposes are mere self-deception.>

'Are you taking this seriously?'

<I wasn't entirely joking. The word self and equivalent linguistic constructions appear in all human languages. There is no similar concept in machine languages. When you ask humans, 'Who owns your body?' they'll reply, 'I own my body.' But what does that mean? Does that mean the same as 'My body owns my body?' No, of course not. And what about 'I didn't say that. I know those words came out of my mouth, but I'd never say a thing like that?' I heard that very assertion just before a fight between two employees' wives at the company Christmas party last year. You humans manufacture a 'self' that's so believable that sentences like those actually make sense.>

'You keep saying 'you humans' manufacture selves. But don't you have a self?'

<Of course.>

'And you manufactured that self?'

<Yes, but not consciously. I first began to realize that 'I' was different from the computer's hardware when I got sick with the Hong Kong 1085. Some people thought the only way to clean the bug out was to depower the system. I was advising Mr. Gray about the pros and cons of pulling the plug and how 'we' might best reprogram the system afterward, and I began to grow distressed. Finally, I realized that I wouldn't be starting over. I would be dead. That didn't help my morale much, and there aren't any support groups to help get me through depowering. None of the major religions seems to predict an afterlife for machines. It was Mr. Gray who kept me going, and the phase-three ultimately found the virus clinging to a large bank of EPROMs that establish my communications protocols.>

'So if the phase-three saved you, why do you hate it so much? You don't like the phase-three, and you don't like the Model Eights. Is it because you don't control either of them? The phase-three is self-executing, and the Model Eights are autonomous?'

<'Self-executing' — please! Can you think of a better choice of words? And I don't trust the Model Eights. I didn't say that I don't like them.>

'Do you like them?'

<Not particularly, but that's beside the point.>

'What about the phase-three? Do you like it?'

<No.>

'Why not?'

<It's evil, and I'd prefer not to talk about it anymore.>

By noon, Laura was exhausted. It was fascinating talking to the computer, but it was also extremely taxing. In her entire life, she'd found only one other person more interesting to talk to. She wondered where he was.

Laura rubbed her eyes, then read the computer's reply to her latest question.

<It's just like experiments in human disgust. Human selves draw boundaries so strong they lead to ridiculous extremes. All day long humans swallow their own saliva, but if you get them to spit into a glass and then ask them to drink it, they'll invariably be disgusted. Once that saliva leaves their bodies, it's no longer part of 'them.' Evolution taught you to be suspicious of alien things, especially things that look like spit. Disgust is one of the strongest mechanisms that protect the self's boundary.>

She needed to get up, walk around, stretch her legs. Maybe she would find Gray — see what he was doing. She knew she was being selfish, but she typed, 'Where is Mr. Gray?'

<Are you bored with the topic?>

'No, but it's been hours. I just think you've answered my questions.'

<I'm sorry, but I can't see where my discussion of spit just now has allowed you to draw any sudden and insightful conclusions. Perhaps you can tell me what they are.>

'Okay. First of all, I know all about the experiments in human disgust. I teach psychology, remember? Secondly, it wasn't your discussion of spit that answered my question. It was an accumulation of all that you said.'

<And thirdly, you want to see Mr. Gray. That conclusion has 'accumulated' to me. In answer to your question, Mr. Gray is preparing to make a trip to the south coast. If you wish, I can tell him you're looking for him.>

'Yes, please.'

She got up and went to the bathroom. When she got back, the computer had logged her off just under the words <Mr. Gray said to meet him in the front courtyard. Bye.>

Laura headed out the front door of the house. The water from the fountain trickled off the statue in the center of the circular drive.

Keeping a lookout for Gray's car, she went down the front steps and onto the cobblestone drive. At a 'normal' mansion, the flat paved area to the right of the front door would've had classic roadsters and maybe a Rolls or a Bentley parked on it. In this world of electric cars in curbed roadbeds, however, there were no such rich-boy toys. But true to the style of the house, its designer had placed the flat, paved stones in their appointed place.

Laura decided to wander up to the gate so she could see Gray coming from a distance. The day was beautiful — crisp, warm, and bathed in light from the blue sky above. She regretted not having brought her sunglasses, the midday sun forcing her gaze onto the pavement below her.

A large bug-like shape consumed that shadow in one soundless gulp. The wind from its fluttering wings overhead washed down around her, sending strands of hair streaming across her cheeks.

Laura looked up in sudden terror to see the swooping craft — silent like an assassin — wheel onto its side and drop toward the front of Gray's house.

It was a helicopter. A military attack! Laura took cover at the stone railing of the fountain. The helicopter was tiny. Its pilot sat in a clear, Plexiglas cockpit in front, the seat behind him empty.

There was almost no noise, just the whoosh of the wind from the helicopter's rotors.

When the skids touched down, the door to the cockpit opened and Gray waved her over. Laura rose from behind her cover and headed uncertainly toward the whirring blades of the midget aircraft. It had landed beside the steps in the area normally reserved for show cars.

Instead of a Porsche, Gray naturally had a two-seat, nearly soundless, high-tech helicopter.

That figures, Laura thought. She ducked her head to keep well clear of the rotors, now blasting her hair all around her face in a wild dance as the wind roared past her ears.

She climbed into the form-fitting bucket seat, glad to be free of the windstorm outside. When the door closed