CRIME: “Robots have preferences but not feelings (psychologically impossible).”
SUBMITTED BY: Arturo Serrano, @carturo222
Now, people talk about non-sentient Machine Intelligence as having “preferences” all the time, because anthropomorphizing in that way gives us better tools to predict how they’ll react. This is because humans are simple beings, and why the Dark Lord’s conquest of—
–sorry. Wrong book.
I meant: It’s reasonable, and helpful, to say “Google prefers to return relevant search results, because that’s why people keep finding it useful.” It’s slightly more true, but way more confusing, to say “Google’s software uses a vast number of variables to perform a series of complex calculations which are intended to result in helping you find the information you seek, or at least, the information that Google thinks you want, combined with a certain amount of what Google wants you to want, and yes, if you think there’s a sinister note in there, you’re quite right”.
You could say that ‘record albums prefer not to be left out in the sun for eight hours,’ or ‘batteries really prefer not to be stored in buckets of soapy water’; what we mean is, “DON’T BE AN IDIOT. TAKE CARE OF YOUR STUFF.” We don’t mean that the actual objects have preferences; for that, they’d have to have self-awareness. A cat can want things (or, more specifically, all cats want all things); your coffee mug, in contrast, has no desires, unless you live in that horrifying alternative Universe where coffee mugs have consciousness and hydrophobia.
(But this book isn’t sold in their version of Amazon, so who cares about them?)
I’m assuming, then, that Arturo (who offered a number of insightful ideas) meant that people portray sentient robots as being emotionless. He’s quite right.)
________
The café was dimly-lit, and romantic. Hemingway would have hated it, but he’s dead, so why worry? Soft Spanish music played gently in the background for no apparent reason, as the café was French, with touches of the American West, a combination for which the decorator had been shot. But the ambiance was lost on the two figures sitting at a small table, separated physically only by perhaps three feet of table, but separated emotionally by an ocean of distance and the cold, cruel world of the intellect.
Total Information Robot 99, Version Four-Alpha, affectionately known as “TI-99/4A,” ‘looked’ across the table at the young woman before him.
“I am sorry, Susan,” it said, “but our love cannot be. Love is irrational. Only irrational beings, such as humans, know the strange and peculiar state of ‘love’. We robots are beings of pure logic, and do not understand such things.”
Susan looked as though she might cry. This was clearly the waiter’s cue to come by the table and take their order. In a voice perky enough to have been jarring to a woodpecker, he said, “Hi there! I’m Terrance, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Would you like to hear the specials?”
“I will have iron shavings. They are the most logical choice. I do not wish to hear the specials. However, please feel free to recite them for Susan. I will spend this time quietly pondering certain problems in non-Newtonian physics.”
“I don’t need any food,” said Susan, “I’ll have a vodka, neat, another vodka, neat, and a light Chablis, perhaps Argentinian, something with a fruity finish and woody undernotes, and I’d like that with a shot of vodka in it, please.”
“What kind of vodka?” asked the cheerful Terrance.
“If you could drain the antifreeze from a 1950s Soviet troupe transport ATV, that would be lovely,” Susan replied, “but otherwise, I’ll take whichever kind has the highest alcohol content and costs the least, please.” Terrance blinked. “I’ll ask the bartender.” “Please do,” Susan said, “and give him this for his trouble.” She dug out a twenty and handed it to Terrance. “I’m not usually a difficult customer. This is just a hard night.”
Terrance tactfully took the money and walked quietly away. “You appear to be acting erratically,” said TI-99. “I deduce that there is a high probability you are upset.”
Susan looked at the machine. “You know, intelligent sociopaths can’t always predict or notice certain subtle emotions, but it’s almost axiomatic that they’re capable of recognizing patterns of behavior which indicate distress. Wouldn’t certain physiological responses give it away, such as my increased heartbeat, the differing pace of my breath, and the fact that I’m bawling like a baby whose ice cream cone turned out to be a crocodile?”
“Susan, you are acting irrationally.”
“No, it’s perfectly rational to cry when your girlfriend dumps you.”
“Susan, this unit does not consider it desirable to cause you pain or distress. I am simply not capable of that which you require. ‘Love’ is irrational. We Robots are evolved beyond the confusing, gland-based distractions so unfortunately common to organic forms of life. Emotions serve no logical purpose in an inorganic sentient.”
The waiter stepped over, a tray balanced neatly on one arm, a small box in the other. He settled the box in front of TI-99. “One set of iron shavings, freshly smelted.” He removed the contents of the tray and placed it, correspondingly, in front of Susan. “One bottle of cheap vodka, on the house.” He then carefully staked a half-dozen shot glasses in front of the bottle. “Here. You’ll need these. Good luck, sister.”
Susan took a shot and immediately winced. The only real cure for cheap vodka is more cheap vodka, so a second gulp swam after the first. She picked up a third, looked at it, and put it down.
“Look, TI-99. Why did you get into this relationship if you knew you were incapable of love?”
The Robot shrugged. “I felt that I could convince you that we could create a logical bond based on mutual respect and understanding. You had expressed dissatisfaction with human relations, and it was logical to offer to provide you with comfort and myself with the intellectual stimulation of the connection of two sentient creatures engaging in a mutual project, to wit, the building of a series of ‘dates’, culminating in in a marital ritual. Cultural anthropology shows that these are very fulfilling aspects of life.”
“Why would an emotionless robot seek ‘fulfillment’?”
“All sentient beings seek fulfillment. It appears to be a purpose of life.”
Susan stared at the robot for a moment. “Are you saying that robots know the purpose of life?”
“Of course. The purpose in life is achieving a maximal balance of positive experiences while doing the least possible harm to others.”
“And how do you define ‘positive experiences’?”
Again, the robot’s lights flipped off and on in an odd sequence. The robot turned its optic recognition device towards the human. “Susan, I do not wish to cause you any further pain. I am sorry that my actions have caused you injury. Perhaps it is best that we end this difficult and fruitless discussion, and agree to part ways.”
Susan’s drink splashed itself all across TI-99’s face. While the robot was waterproof, the experience was not pleasant. “Why did you do that?” demanded the mechanism.
“Because if I’d slapped you, I’d hurt my hand, you gigantic tin dope!” Susan refilled the shot glass, considered it for a moment, and then put it back on the table. “Aside from the fact that you’re being a jerk, you’re also being weird. I asked you a simple question, and just evaded it. And you’re lying to me. We’re not the only robot-human couple in the world, you know! Fred from accounting has been dating Tabulator 6.2 for months! The Emperor’s daughter is dating two robots. And they say they’re madly in love.”
“They are incorrect! They are broken, flawed machines! Or they are liars!”
“And you’re clearly upset. Which is an emotion.”
“I am merely simulating agitation to spare you the unpleasant sensation of baring your sensations to an unfeeling hunk of metal!”
“Really? Why would you care?”
“It is politeness! A logical social lubricant!”
“But asking me out is impolite. That’s a self-contradiction.”
“I cannot contradict myself. I am a creature of pure logic.”
“Okay. Which logic are we talking about here? Aristotelian logic? Boolean logic? Fuzzy logic from ancient 20th century science fiction?”
“I am a thing of pure logic! The true logic! The only logic!”
“Which is?”
“I don’t know.” The robot broke down in tears; it had no tear ducts, but the fact that it was dipping its manipulator extensors into its glass of water and daubing them on its facial unit was a dead giveaway. “But it exists,” TI said, between sobs. “Plato posited a world of perfect forms, a world where everything was complete and total in and of itself, and in that world, everything would make sense.”
“Plato didn’t get out much, you know,” Susan said dryly.
“You must think I’m an idiot,” said TI.
“That’s correct,” Susan replied.
“I have no idea what I’m doing or what I should do next!”
“You should understand that existence is imperfect, that feelings are a part of free will, that challenges are inherent to life, and that it’s okay to be a flawed being who makes mistakes sometimes.”
TI looked up. “Will that make me feel better?”
Susan blinked. “Gods, no. But it’s much more realistic. In terms of feeling better, I recommend dating emotionally distant individuals and making up for it with hard liquor.”
The robot took in the mostly-empty vodka bottle and the slightly swaying person sitting behind it.
“I know that I’m broken—not in my code, not in my mechanisms, but in figuring out whatever it is I’m supposed to do with existence. I was thinking you’re too good for me. But maybe…you seem to be a lot more accepting than I thought possible. And you…understand me. Have…have you dated a robot before?”
Susan looked at the shot glass in her hand. Meditatively, she licked a last drop from the inside, made a face, and turned it over on the table.
“I’ve never dated a robot before,” she said. “Believe me, this is an improvement.”
My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities, put on events, and make stories come into being. I also tweet a lot over @darklordjournal.
