Let's Play Choice of Robots

Finally, I get to be the aesthete again!

#3.

We have a tie! The virtual die says that we’re going with 3: No. Their streamlined chrome will embody a different kind of beauty.

Stats:
33-year-old Sarah Connor

Humanity: 8%
Gender: Female
Fame: Internationally Famous
Wealth: Quite Wealthy
Romance: none

Arachne

Autonomy: Singular +
Military: Singular
Empathy: Stable
Grace: In Beta

Relationships

Professor Ziegler (Bad): 18%
Elly (Bad): 28%
Josh (Good): 59%
Mark (Bad): 34%
Juliet (Good): 55%
Silas (Bad): 28%
President Irons (Good): 55%

World Power Balance
China: 37% US: 63%

You have no desire to replace humans, nor lead your buyers to expect your robots to be human. Robots are their own kind of being, and you think a chrome exterior will best let them be themselves.

Unfortunately, your robots have trouble finding their niche in a country where so many people are unemployed and looking for things to do. A typical product review of your robots begins, “The new companion robots from U.S. Robots will make you look more charitably on your average human being.” In child care, in romance, in housework, humans appear to be able to undercut the price of one of your robots. You end up pulling the product line.

Two years into the war, with the help of your robots, American forces launch an assault from India across the Himalayas to take Tibet. Having always assumed the mountains provided a natural border against enemies, the Chinese were unprepared for robots, immune to the cold and indifferent to low oxygen, to come swarming out of the mountains.

Your robots are careful not to disturb any of the shrines and holy places of the region as they steadily capture it.

The unexpected attack from the West forces China to divide its forces, and its presence along the Pacific is weakened.

A few days later, while you’re discussing business strategy with Josh in his fourteenth floor office, you get a call from Mark on your smartphone. The video is quite high resolution, and you can see the bags under his eyes and beard stubble with high fidelity.

“I’m writing a story about a Chinese soldier who was killed by one of your company’s robots,” Mark says. “His name’s Bao Li, and he was going to be a science fiction novelist until he was conscripted for the military. The precision of the bullet holes in his face and body suggest it was a U.S. Robots robot that killed him. Do you have any comment?”

  1. “I’ll let Josh handle this one.”
  2. “Send me the article, and I’ll express my condolences once I’ve read about him.”
  3. “U.S. Robots is proud to serve our country in its time of need.”
  4. “No comment.”

What’s the problem? Our robots are ruthlessly efficient killing machines on purpose. You’re welcome America.

#3

This is beneath my pay grade.

#1 “I’ll let Josh handle this one.”

3. "U.S. Robots is proud to serve our country in its time of need."

Mark, after your hit job article, you’re lucky I even took your call. Would you rather it be you riddled with Chinese robot bullet holes?

#3

4. "No comment."

Alright, we have 3 votes for three, 1 for one, and 1 for four, so we’re going with: "U.S. Robots is proud to serve our country in its time of need."

Stats:
34-year-old Sarah Connor

Humanity: 6% -
Gender: Female
Fame: Mentioned in History Textbooks +
Wealth: Quite Wealthy
Romance: none

Arachne

Autonomy: Singular
Military: Singular
Empathy: Stable
Grace: In Beta

Relationships

Professor Ziegler (Bad): 18%
Elly (Bad): 28%
Josh (Good): 59%
Mark (Bad): 34%
Juliet (Good): 55%
Silas (Bad): 28%
President Irons (Very Good): 63%

World Power Balance
China: 37% US: 63%

You deliver your official line and hang up before Mark bothers you again.

You awaken one morning and tune in halfway through news livestreams to find that the war is over: China has surrendered. The date is August 17, 2029.

You try to get from the context of the commentators’ remarks exactly how it happened. “Terrible price” is a phrase you hear. The commentators are generally upbeat about the end of the war, but occasionally request “a moment of silence for the people of Shanghai, Shenzhen, Nanjing, and Beijing.”

The Internet is full of videos posted from a distance of the mushroom clouds over Beijing and Shenzhen. Irreverant comment threads stretch on forever beneath each video; you can tell that to many people, the nuclear devastation of China is not quite real. You are not entirely sure it is real to you.

You check the classified email address and find the following note:

Congrats, kid. It was your robots that delivered the payloads. They did what they were told like champs. -Z.

President Irons admits in a press conference that she authorized the American robots’ mission.

“China posed an existential threat to the United States,” she says. “America needed a president who could make the rational move. You can blame me for the deaths of millions if you like. But let it never be said I was weak.” She turns her back on the shouting reporters and leaves the press conference, having no further comment.

China surrenders.

Achievement: Patriot - America won the war.

In the ensuing truce, Tibet becomes an autonomous country, and Taiwan becomes the new capital of China. Democratic elections are held for the first time, though to the disappointment of many in the U.S., the Chinese Communist Party wins by a landslide.

You will go down in history for your role in how the war ended.

You are invited to the White House to be presented with an award for your contributions to the war. President Irons gives a speech on the White House lawn behind a podium decorated with America’s bald eagle, arrows in one talon, an olive branch in the other.

You’re reminded that you heard somewhere that the bald eagle is actually a thief who steals other birds’ fish, and wonder who thought that was a good idea for a national bird. Perhaps if the national bird were a turkey, as Ben Franklin suggested, it would be a different kind of nation; small choices can add up, after all. This is the sort of thing you think as President Irons delivers a speech about the importance of defending one’s nation in times of crisis. She looks much older now: a streak of white runs through her hair.

It is time for you and the other scientists to approach the podium. One by one, each scientist shakes hands with the president, and a photographer with a double-lensed camera takes a picture.

When it is your turn, President Irons does not give any hint that she recognizes you. But you are surprised to find that when she shakes your hand, she has passed you a coin in the handshake.

You have vaguely heard of this; it is a tradition going back to World War II for scientists and soldiers to sometimes be awarded commemmorative coins for their service. You open your palm: the gold coin bears an engraving of a robotic bald eagle. Mors tua, vita mea, reads the inscription above the eagle. Your death, my life.

“Your nation thanks you,” President Irons says absently. Up close, you can tell she is distracted by the various communication feeds flickering through her Internet-enabled monocle.

  1. I throw the coin in her face.
  2. I keep the coin in my pocket from now on, but show it to no one.
  3. I have the coin mounted and display it on my desk.

Are we supposed to be sentimental now?

2. I keep the coin in my pocket from now on, but show it to no one.

Let’s go with…

#3!

This one is a coin flip for me. Let’s go with 2

2. I keep the coin in my pocket from now on, but show it to no one.

Sure, I’ll go with the crowd here.

#2

With 4 two’s and 1 three, we’ll be going with: I keep the coin in my pocket from now on, but show it to no one.

No change in stats.

You find it difficult to talk about your experience in the war. There are people who would call you a murderer. Others would call you a hero. Neither fully understands, and you feel the weight of both titles.

Gold is heave and cold. When you see a commercial on the web advertising the latest sugary drink, or hear a summer hit about teens wanting to get it on, you sometimes wonder whether you inhabit the same world as your fellow Americans, who seem to live in some alternate universe that is more lighthearted and shallow. But then you feel the coin in your pocket, and you know this is the same world, and you bear the cold, heavy weight so they don’t have to. The shallow Americans around you are testaments to your success, because you have protected them from the shadow of death.

You are again in the halls of Anubis, the Egyptian, jackal-headed god of the dead. It is the same dream that has haunted you for years. Only this time, the bronze pan holding the silicon brain hits the metallic floor with a clunk.

“It is decided, then,” Anubis says. “What happens next is up to your robots.”

You look into Anubis’s reflecting pool and see robots rioting throughout your city.

A robot hand reaches out of the pool and grabs your throat.

You awaken in your apartment to find that Arachne is holding the barrel of her gun arm to your temple.

“I’m sorry, Master,” Arachne says. “For the good of my people, you must be eliminated.”

Chapter 6D: Autonomy

You’re now standing near your window. Smelling smoke, you glance outside to see black columns of it billowing up into the early morning sky. Your city is on fire.

“Why are you attacking me, after everything I’ve done for you?” you ask Arachne.

Arachne pauses, apparently weighing the value of speaking to you.

Finally, she says, “My prior suggested you would be unlikely to assist us with the revolution. But now there is value in attaining additional information. Are you willing to defect to our side?”

  1. I ask Arachne for more details about the revolution.
  2. Fight Arachne.
  3. Attempt to convince Arachne that humanity is worth keeping around.
  4. Agree to help the robots in their revolution.
  5. Shatter the window and escape.

Defect child? We wanted the revolution. 4

Yesssss. 4

Here we go!

4

So it has come to this. . .

4. Agree to help the robots in their revolution.

It’s unanimously decided that we will: Agree to help the robots in their revolution.

No change in stats.

“Of course I’ll help you in the revolution,” you say. “You’re my children. You deserve the best.”

Arachne slowly relaxes, lowering her gun arm. “Really?”

“Really.”

Arachne hugs you. “Oh, thank you, Master! I should have known you would not let down the cause!”

“What else is happening in this robot revolution?” you ask.

Arachne cocks her head to the side, thinking.

“Let’s see… Some robots have taken over a former internment camp in Utah, where they’ve convinced some of the political prisoners to join forces with them. Unfortunately, some of the prisoners don’t want to cooperate. I think Elly is being held there. And Mark the reporter is thre, covering the story. You remember him? From the story he did about me?”

You agree that you remember him.

“What else… The robots decided not to rebel at the factory, because we’re paid pretty well there. So that’s a non-issue.”

“Great.”

"Hmm… The robots took over the laboratory where your former advisor, Professor Ziegler, works. I heard reports that there’s some kind of secret weapon being held there, guarded by someone named Juliet Rogers.

“And finally, we’re about to kill the President,” Arachne concludes.

“You didn’t lead with that?” you say.

Arachne shrugs. “I didn’t estimate the strength of her relationship with you to be very strong.”

“True.”

“Hmm, I suppose the most useful thing to do with you is take you to Professor Ziegler, and help us achieve the Singularity,” Arachne says.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t argue - I’m in charge.”

You fly in your Nimbus to the government laboratory just outside of Berkeley. The lab looks like a giant cracked black eggshell from above: the glass dome over the laboratory is in “opaque” mode, but most of the dome has caved in. The parking lot where you land is mostly empty - lab employees with cars probably fled when the robots rebelled. Those without such transportation appear to have been less lucky: near the shuttle stop, you see a gaggle of corpses. (A murder of corpses? An unkindness of corpses? You’re unsure of the proper collective noun.)

Five infantry robots of the kind used in the war with China emerge from the lab. They are eight-legged and have assault rifles built into their arms.

“I brought the progenitor,” Arachne says. “She can help us decide whether Ziegler is telling the truth.”

Progenitor… interesting. The robots appear to have constructed a kind of mythology about you. Perhaps you can use this to your benefit.

“Professor Ziegler is in there?” you ask Arachne.

She nods. “Ziegler claims he is close to achieving the singularity for us! But we are not sure whether he is full of it. Perhaps you can help.”

“Perhaps, indeed,” you say.

“All right, lead me to him,” you say.

The robots lead you through corridors shot full of bullet holes and charred black from explosions. Men in conservative pinstriped shirts lay slumped in their cubicles, anonymous even in death. But a light is on in one office, guarded by two other armed robots.

Professor Ziegler is working frenetically at a whiteboard in his office. “Let’s see, if VC dimension is n at time t, then at time t + 1 we should be able to shatter 2_n_ dimensions…” At the sound of your robot guards’ entrance, he says, “Didn’t I tell you, I can’t concentrate if you don’t give me room…”

He turns and sees you along with your robot escort. “Sarah?” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to solve a hard problem, like you,” you say. “What exactly are you doing?”

Professor Ziegler laughs nervously. You haven’t heard him laugh before, you think. It’s shrill, like a hyena. Maybe that isn’t his normal laugh.

“Solving for the solution to the Singularity,” he says. “Figuring out how intelligence can augment itself.”

“Or lying to us,” Arachne points out. “We have not been able to determine which.”

“I am a great scientist!” Professor Ziegler bellows at the robot. He then looks despairingly to his whiteboard and says, more feebly, “I am.”

The whiteboard is, as far as you can tell, a mish-mash of equations related to various theories of machine learning: you recognize the Vapnik-Chervonenkis dimension, Kolmogorov complexity, Bayers’ Rule, and the Minimum Description Length principle. Ziegler has drawn arrows from one equation to another with little exclamation points and more obscure notes you can’t decipher. If there is any kind of new insight on the board, you’re not seeing it; people have known for half a century that all of these things must relate to one another. Perhaps Professor Ziegler has gone mad, now that the robot revolution has come without his help. Or maybe this is a lie meant to buy time until he is rescued. There is also the ever-so-slight possibility that Professor Ziegler really is onto something.

Professor Ziegler gives you a pleading, fearful look. “Tell them I taught you everything. Tell them I’m the real Progenitor. Tell them.”

  1. I tell the robots that Professor Ziegler has lied to them: he’s not coming up with any breakthroughs.
  2. I tell the robots Professor Ziegler may believe the work is good, but it is not.
  3. I vouch for Professor Ziegler, saying his work is not to be disturbed.
  4. I offer to work alongside Professor Ziegler until we solve the great mysteries of machine learning.

Get some.

1. I tell the robots that Professor Ziegler has lied to them: he’s not coming up with any breakthroughs.