He slid another pita chip into his mouth. The commercial that his cerebral computer projected on the insides of his cornea featured a computer-generated gerbil that got his jollies from breaking into people’s homes, turning on the faucets in their bathtubs, and swimming around in soapy water. The family that lived there would eventually find him, shocked at his intrusion, to which the gerbil would only reply, “Oopsie!”
Eventually the video, which had been promoting a brand of toilet paper, ended. Karl was able to then move onto the article he wanted to read.
The headline read, “New Television Show Aims to Be First with All-I.I. Cast.”
Karl wasn’t one to be swept up in entertainment news, but as a specialist of installed intelligences, he couldn’t help but be intrigued.
The website the story was on was one of those with obnoxious banner ads and a pop-up that demanded you subscribe to their “pro” service plan. It almost infuriated the psychologist into closing the page, but he pushed through his annoyance and dug into the meat of the article.
He had been hoping the show the I.I.s had been cast into was going to be a story-driven drama, or perhaps a witty sitcom. He was disappointed to learn that it was neither, but instead a game show where I.I.s competed to solve complex puzzles in order to win cash. It didn’t sound entirely humiliating, however. The tasks they’d complete were actually fascinating science projects that, while being entertaining, actually aimed to solve some of life’s numerous problems. According to the article, the pilot episode would center around designing the best water filter in just three days. The contestants were even encouraged to refer to any humans they thought could help them in their endeavors.
Sounds asinine, Karl thought, but I’d still watch it.
The psychologist had been listening to some soft music while reading. The low light of the room and the satisfying feeling of his most recent meal in his stomach lulled him into a light doze. He could still see the cerebral computer’s projections on his closed eyelids and hear the light plucking of guitar strings, but his mind was senseless to it all.
Instead, it was visiting an old memory of Karl’s, from one of his first study projects during university. He was young, but gifted with communication skills. The curators of an old intelligence museum allowed him to meet with the I.I. of a famous science-fiction author. His assignment was a simple interview, but he’d spend days deliberating on the questions he planned to ask. The I.I. he was to speak with was an idol of his, Gordon Hennessy.
“Good morning, Mr. Hennessy,” Karl had typed into the old-fashioned text-to-text interface.
Above the keyboard was the author’s monitor, upon which a digital reconstruction of Hennessy smiled in response.
“Good morning, lad,” the display read. “How are you?”
“Great, thanks for asking,” Karl replied. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”
“Of course,” Hennessy said. “It’s always a pleasure to speak with brilliant young minds. People like you turn the science fiction I’ve written into science reality.”
Karl was charmed by the I.I. and hung onto every word they exchanged. After some delightful banter, he broke into the questions.
“As a big fan of your Timeless Traveller series, I’d always wondered: where did the SS Monument go after it warped through the heart of the galaxy?” he typed.
“Ha ha ha,” read the display. Technology hadn’t yet allowed for the audible laughter of an installed intelligence. “I have gotten that question a lot, and I always give the same reply. The truth is, I have no idea where the ship ends up. I never truly decided, but I figured the ambiguity of the ending would allow each reader to interpret it in their own way. I’ve heard some people theorize that the Monument traveled to heaven. Others think the jump took them to another galaxy. I can’t say that any of these are true or false.”
The entire conversation brought back that childish wonder Karl had felt when first digging into Hennessy’s thick anthologies of space epics. In fact, it was that interview that had motivated him to stay in the field of I.I. study. Just a week prior, he had seriously considered dropping his classes and moving somewhere else to learn electrical wiring. But the hook of fascination had finally pierced him. There was no escaping that kind of love.
Karl was brought back into the waking world by another sudden commercial. It seemed the article’s website had grown impatient with his inactivity, so it decided to try to sell him something.
“Thousands of gamers,” the announcer said as those same words appeared on the screen. “Hundreds of missions. Millions of possibilities.”
Footage of a colorful top-down video game followed the mysterious lettering. It looked like a dwarf riding a mechanical donkey was charging into a field of monsters, hacking at them with a strange holographic axe. Vibrant splashes of particle effects followed each successful blow, the monsters wailing as they took a beating.
“Customize your character,” the announcer urged. Images of a few dozen combinations of hairstyles, faces, clothes, and body types flashed by in the blink of an eye. “Share your adventure.” The dwarf from the previous clip was now fighting beside a slender alien being with a ray gun and a huge monster-like character with fur and a tail. They appeared to be in some sort of volcanic cavern, assaulted by waves of enormous serpents. “Be the hero.”
The commercial showed a cinematic close-up of the dwarf. The shot panned out slowly to display a number of zany characters, all gathered together in some lakeside village.
“Guardians of Yatyr. Available to human and I.I. players. Rated T for Teen.”
Intriguing, Karl thought to himself. I’d heard of games designed for installed intelligences, but never one that combines them with human gamers. I wonder what effects it might have on human-I.I. interaction.
Before Karl’s thought could complete, the image on his
