“Because,” he says, “everyone I spy on, you arrest. Or toss through a window.”
“That was one time,” I say. “And it wasouta window, notthrough.”
His antennae twitch. “What is the difference?”
“The amount of glass you have to clean up afterward. And no, I don’t want my grandmother arrested. Or thrown out a window.”
“Why not? You have a tactical advantage because she thinks you are dead,” he says cheerily.
I press a hand to my forehead. “I really need to write that tact subroutine for you.”
Edgar is an artificial intelligence. No, not the kind you’re thinking of. There are multitudes of learning algorithms in the world and they’ve been around for decades. Some are useful (spam filters, programs that scan for potential pandemics, accessibility apps), some are incredibly infuriating and useless (chatbot customer service), and some are morally reprehensible (algorithms designed to replace human jobs, disinformation bots, discriminatory apps, deepfake programs, and scambots). But most of those so-called AIs are little more than restructuring of existing data. They can’t create; they can’t think—they just take in information and regurgitate it.
Edgar is different. For one thing, heknowshe is a program.
Self-aware AI became illegal after a navigation program went rogue on a Russian nuclear power barge. Programs will look for the easiest route between point A and point B—even if that route takes them through enemy waters. And since that navigation program was self-aware, it could argue with the ship’s crew. One missile strike later, the UN created the Treaty on the Prohibition of Sentient Artificial Intelligence. Otherwise known as the Pevek Convention.
The most dangerous thing in the world is self-awareness. Knowing who and what you are, how you can affect the world. Now,thatis power.
Of course, some people will always ignore the laws. Hence, Edgar.
Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t program him.
Edgar stares at me, unfazed. He does not feel embarrassment or shame, and I envy that. “What are the parameters of the mission?”
“I want to check on my grandmother. See if she is healthy, doing well on her own, and any personal information I can find.”
Edgar’s wings rustle. “This is not ISD work, is it?”
“No,” I admit.
“You have said that spying on people for personal reasons is wrong.”
“I have said that,” I say. “But she’s getting older.”
“So it is all right to spy on people because they are old,” says Edgar in that infuriatingly cheerful and detached voice. “Does the need for privacy decrease with age?”
I grimace. There is an old saying in programming:Garbage in, garbage out. I’m doing my best to make sure I don’t feed Edgar a steady stream of garbage human choices; I want him to have enough data to develop his own set of morals, if that is even possible for an AI.
“Sometimes,” I say. “If you love someone, you do bad things and hope for a good outcome.”
I hear the whir of the computer as Edgar considers my words. “That is irrational.”
“Humans are irrational,” I agree. “And you can add this to the list of weird things about us.”
“That list is getting long,” says Edgar. “Why is it socially acceptable to eat chicken and not parrot? Why does the designated hitter rule inspire such ire? And why is pineapple on pizza so controversial?”
“I prefer it to parrot,” I say.
Edgar takes to the air, his wings buzzing. “Noted. Shall we begin now?”
“No,” I say. “At noon. There are blackouts scheduled. We’ll move when the power’s out.”
The blackouts have become a routine in most western cities. It’s partly about fire control—to make sure that a rogue spark can’t set off a new wildfire—and partly because the most recent drought means that dams can’t draw enough power during the summer months. The blackouts prevent major outages by suspending power to a few specific areas, so the entire grid won’t crash. Portland schedules blackouts for the weekend, when most people will be at home and the workweek will remain unaffected. Because we wouldn’t want it to impact the economy, of course. Just everyone’s weekends.
Today’s blackout is supposed to last seven hours. That will be more than enough time to comb through my grandmother’s life.
The truth is, my grandmother is in her eighties. And I have seven years left working for ISD. Even if I manage to survive and claw my way back to my family, I don’t know if she’ll still be around. This weekend in Portland might be my last chance to be near her. I want to know what she’s been reading, who she spends time with, what TV shows she watches—
